ONDAT-bHATS 


'c/ii/S£/?/£S  OU  Il/NDJ" 


G:A.Sainte-Beuv 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 

WORKS  OF  AYILLIAM  MATHEWS. 

IN  THE  ORDER  OF  THEIR  PUBLICATION. 


GETTING  ON   IN   THE  WORLD; 

OR  HINTS  ON   SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 
1  volume,  12mo,  pages  374,  price  $2.00. 

THE   GREAT   CONVERSERS, 

AND  OTHER   ESSAYS. 
1  volume,  12mo,  pages  304,  price  Sl-75. 

WORDS,   THEIR  USE  AND   ABUSE. 

1  volume,  12mo,  pages  384,  price  g2.00. 

HOURS  WITH  MEN  AND  BOOKS. 

1  volume,  12mo,  pages  384,  price  $2.00. 

"MONDAY-CHATS"; 

A  Selection  from  the  "Causcries  du  Lnndi"  of  C.-A.  Sainte- 
Beuve,  with  a  Biographical  and  Critical  Intro- 
duction by  the  translator. 

1  volume,  12mo,  pages  386,  price  8800. 


IN  PREPARATION. 


ORATORY  AND  ORATORS. 


MO]^DAY'CHATS, 


BY 


C.  A.  SAIXTE-BEUVE, 

OF  THE  FRENCH   ACADEMY. 


SELECTED  AND  TRANSLATED   FROM  THE  "CAUSERIES  DU  LrXDI," 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  ON  THE  LIFE  AND 

WRITINGS  OF  SAINTE-BEUVE, 


By  WILLIAM   MATHEWS,   LL.D., 

AUTHOR  OF    "GETTING  ON  IN  THE  WORLD,"    "WORDS,   THEIR  USE  AND 
ABUSE,"    ETC.   ETC. 


Je  n'ai  plus  qu'jin  plaisir,  j'analyse,  j'herborise,  je  suis  un  naturaliste  des 
esprits.  Ce  que  je  voudrais  constituer,  c'est  Vhistob'e  nalurelle  littiraire.— 
Sainte-Beuve. 


CHICAGO: 
S.  C.  GRIGGS    AND    COMPANY. 

.1877. 


Copyright,  1877, 
By  S.  C.  GRIGGis  AND  COMPANY. 


I     KHI3HT    &   LEDTIAH.D    1 


•  Alt  t       « 


1        t        » 
A      A     L     b 
t    1    A     1  »      *i» 


A  4 

1  «, 


*>  tit.  I. 


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Sainte-Beuve,  the  finest  critical  spirit  of  our  time.— Matthew  Aenold. 

Such  admirable  biographical  essays  in  so  small  a  compass  are  nowhere 
else  to  be  found.  They  are  miniatures  of  the  most  excellent  workmanship  — 
Edinburgh  Review. 

In  point  of  literary  execution  and  critical  power  the  "  Causeries "  have 
challenged  the  admiration  of  all  competent  judges.  There  is  nothing  equal 
to  them,  in  their  line,  in  any  language.— Westminster  Review. 

We,  in  England,  rarely  undertake  a  subject,  failing  within  the  depart- 
ment of  letters,  that  has  attained  to  European  interest,  without  turning  first 
to  see  what  Sainte-Beuve  has  said  about  it.  ...  He  was  never  provoked  into 
coarseness.  His  thrusts  were  made  with  the  small-sword  according  to  the 
received  rules  of  fence:  he  firmly  upheld  the  honor  of  his  calling,  and  in  the 
exercise  of  it  was  uniformly  fearless,  independent,  and  incorrupt. —  London 
Quarterly  Review. 

It  is  impossible  to  speak  of  literary  portraits  without  mentioning  M.  Ste. 
Beuve.  He  has  drawn  an  incredible  number  of  them,  all  worked  out  in  the 
most  delicate  and  careful  manner,  and  highly  prized  by  amateurs.  ...  A 
keen  psychologist,  he  knows  the  secret  links  that  bind  things  together;  he 
^  has  an  unrivalled  faculty  for  seizing  the  relative  elements  of  truths  and  opin- 
,X  ions;  he  identifies  himself  so  thoroughly  with  those  he  judges  that  he  forgets 
IK  to  judge  them;  he  understands  everything,  adapts  himself  to  everything,  en- 
ters into  everything.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  triumphant  in  his  manner;  it  is 
Vyv  all  allusion  and  charm,  the  result  of  half-conscious,  half-unconscious  art.— 
^^Edmond  Scherer,  as  translated  in  the  Westminster  Revieio. 

To  praise  the  talent  of  Sainte-Beuve  would  be  a  superfluous  work:  public 
opinion  has  slowly  become  accustomed  to  consider  him  as  the  first  critic  of 
J^     our  time.— Viscount  D'Haussonvillb. 


4:37420 


PREFACE. 


IN  selecting  from  the  many  volumes  of  the  "  Cause- 
ries  du  Lundi"  the  essays  required  for  the  present 
work,  the  translator  has  experienced  no  little  difficulty. 
The  difficulty,  as  every  reader  of  Sainte-Beuve  will  readi- 
ly suppose,  has  not  been  the  dearth  of  material,  but  "  the 
embarrassment  of  riches."  The  final  decision  has  been 
influenced  by  two  considerations, —  a  desire  to  choose 
themes  of  intrinsic  and  permanent  interest,  and  a  desire 
to  give  a  due  variety.  That  the  translator  has  done 
justice  to  the  original  in  this  attempt  to  reproduce  in 
English  some  of  the  masterpieces  of  modern  French 
criticism,  he  is  very  far  from  flattering  himself.  If  the 
best  translation,  even  of  a  third  or  fourth  rate  author  is 
inevitably  but  the  "seamy  side  of  the  cloth,"  then  he 
may  well  despair  who  has  undertaken  to  convey  in  Eng- 
lish the  curiosa  felicitas,  the  subtle  graces,  and  the  deli- 
cate refinements  of  Sainte-Beuve's  style.  Adequately  to 
do  so  would  imply  a  genius  hardly  inferior  to  that  of 
Sainte-Beuve  himself. 

It  is  only  necessary  to   add   that   the  order  in   which 
the  selections  have  been  arranged  (with  the  exception  of 


VI  PREFACE. 

the  last  two),  is  nearly  chronological,  and  has  no  refer- 
ence to  the  comparative  interest  of  the  themes, —  the  first 
paper  being  less  interesting  than  many  of  the  others, — 
and  that  a  few  of  the  translations  of  passages  quoted  in 
the  Introductory  Essay  have  been  taken  from  a  paper  in 
the  "  Westminster  Review "  and  other  sources. 

Chicago,  October  1,  1877. 


COI^TENTS. 


Introdtjctort  Essay  oy  the  Life  axd  ^\  RITI^^6S  of 

Sainte-Beuve, ix-lxxxvi 

Lewis  the  Foukteexth,      -----  1 

Fenelon,         --------22 

BossuET,     --------  44 

Massillon,      --------84 

Pascal, 123 

Rousseau,       --------       141 

Madame  Geoffkin,     -         -         -         -         -         -  162 

JOUBERT,  --------        185 

GuizoT, "  205 

The  Abbe  Galiaxi,        -         -         -         -         -         -       22< 

Frederic  the  Great,  ^         _         -         -         -  248 

Index,    ---------       291 


THE 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  SAINTE-BEUVE. 


/^N  a  gloomy  day  in  October,  1869,  a  small  house  in 
^-^  the  suburban  Rue  Montparnasse,  in  the  metropolis 
of  France,  was  the  scene  of  a  public  demonstration  such 
as  rarely  occurs  even  in  that  city  of  spectacles,  sights 
and  sensations.  France  had  just  lost  one  of  her  chief 
literary  stars, —  one  whose  place  in  the  galaxy  of  letters 
could  be  filled  by  no  other,  however  large  its  dimensions 
or  brilliant  its  beams.  After  a  long  and  heroic  struggle 
with  a  keenly  painful  disease,  Sainte-Beuve,  Senator  and 
Academician,  had  passed  away,  and  his  fellow-citizens  had 
come  to  testify  their  respect  for  his  memory.  The  fu- 
neral ceremonies,  if  ceremonies  they  could  be  called,  were 
in  keeping  with  the  simplicity  of  his  character.  In  com- 
pliance with  his  last  directions,  none  of  the  societies  or 
learned  bodies  to  which  he  had  belonged  took  part  in 
his  burial;  but  a  crowd  of  ten  thousand  persons,  among 
whom  were  poets,  historians,  novelists,  scientists,  critics, 
artists,  and  journalists  of  every  grade,  together  with  a 
body  of  Parisian  students,  were  present  at  the  house,  and 
followed  the  remains  to  the  tomb.  As  he  had  also  re- 
quested, his  remains  Avere  not  taken  to  a  church,  no  re- 
ligious rites  were  observed,  and  no  discourse  was  pro- 
nounced over  his  grave.  As  the  coffin  was  lowered  into 
the  vault,   in   the   cemetery  of    Montparnasse,   beside  the 


X  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

grave  of  his  mother,  a  wreath  of  violets  was  placed  upon 
it;  and  Mons.  Lacaussade,  one  of  his  executors,  advanc- 
ing to  the  head  of  the  grave,  uttered  the  words,  "Adieu, 
Sainte-Beuve!  adieu,  notre  ami,  adieu!''  then,  turning  to 
the  crowd,  he  thanked  them  in  the  name  of  the  buried 
man-of-letters  for  their  attendance,  and  the  ceremony 
was  ended.  Many  friends  and  admirers,  however,  lin- 
gered awhile  in  groups  in  the  burying-ground,  to  inter- 
change thoughts  and  feelings  on  the  sad  occasion;  and 
all,  doubtless,  felt  that  his  departure  had  left  a  chasm 
not  easily  to  be  filled  in  the  intellectual  ranks  of  France. 
Who  was  this  man  that  thus  in  a  christian  city  had 
asked  for  a  pagan  burial,  and  what  had  he  done  to  be 
honored  at  his  obsequies  as  few  are  honored  who  have 
been  benefactors  to  their  race?  Wh}^  if  he  was  so  illus- 
trious at  home,  is  he  so  little  known  in  other  lands? 
These  questions  we  shall  endeavor  to  answer.  Let  us 
say,  however,  in  advance,  that  the  task  is  not  an  easy 
one,  and  that  we  cannot  flatter  ourselves  that  we  shall 
do  it  more  than  proximate  justice.  It  would  require, 
indeed,  a  subtlety  of  genius,  a  nicety  and  delicacy  of 
touch,  and  a  mastery  of  language,  equal  to  his  own,  ad- 
equately to  characterize  what  the  London  Athemeuni 
rightly  calls  ''  this  all-searching  and  ever-working  intel- 
ligence." By  the  verdict  of  nearly  all  persons  competent 
to  decide,  he  was,  what  Matthew  Arnold  terms  him,  "  the 
finest  critical  spirit  of  our  time," — perhaps  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say,  the  acutest  and  most  brilliant  critic  of  this 
century.  The  fineness  of  his  workmanship,  the  brilliancy 
and    exquisite   delicacy  of  his   style,  his  vast   and  varied 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XI 

knowledge,  his  catholic  taste  and  comprehensive  sympa- 
thies, and,  above  all,  his  rare  sense  and  almost  unerring 
judgment,  have  been  confessed  alike  by  friends  and  foes. 
Not  only  his  compeers  in  Paris,  but  sagacious  judges  in 
England  and  America,  who  have  weighed  his  claims,  de- 
clare that  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  another  critic  of 
our  time  who  has  lighted  up  such  a  variety  of  subjects, 
who  has  extracted  and  hived  up  the  essence  of  so  many 
masterpieces  of  genius  and  learning,  who  has  with  so  ad- 
mirable an  instinct  separated  the  golden  ore  of  literature 
from  the  dross,  and  fixed  on  the  best  specimens  of  the 
true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  good,  as  Sainte-Beuve. 

Even  those  who  may  dispute  these  honors, —  if  such 
there  may  be, — will  not  deny  that  instances  of  such  de- 
votion to  literature  as  his,  such  a  ceaseless,  persevering 
advance  toward  an  ideal,  are  very  rare.  Sainte-Beuve 
did  not  leap  at  once  to  the  topmost  round  of  the  ladder, 
but  worked  his  way  up  slowly,  gradually,  by  dint  of 
patient,  conscientious  toil.  His  whole  life  was  a  progress, 
without  one  backward  step,  or  one  diversion  from  the 
natural  path  of  his  genius.  Starting  on  his  career  with 
no  other  gifts  than  a  naturally  delicate  taste,  a  rare  good 
sense,  and  a  marked  intellectual  subtlety,  he  reached, 
after  twenty  years  of  conscientious  toil,  the  position 
which  he  held  for  twenty  years  more,  in  which  his  criti- 
cisms seemed  not  so  much  the  fruit  of  investigation  and 
thought  as  a  kind  of  divination.  Literature  was  his 
chosen  mistress,  his  first  love  and  his  last,  in  devotion 
to  whom  he  never  for  a  day  relaxed.  To  her  he  gladly 
sacrificed  wealth,  power,  social    influence,  all  other  idols; 


XU  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

and  though,  as  he  passed  from  youth  to  age,  he  saw  the 
hollowness  of  most  objects  of  human  pursuit, —  though 
friends  grew  cold,  popular  admiration  grew  fickle,  illusion 
after  illusion  vanished,  and  hopes  and  trusts  were  swept 
away  into  the  abyss, —  she  never  lost  her  charms.  To 
him  she  was  ever,  in  the  language  of  Chaucer, 

"Ruddy,  fresh,  lively-hued, 
And  every  day  her  beauty  newed"; 

and  so  she  held  him  with  cords  which  grew  tighter  and 
tighter  with  age,  and  which  were  relaxed  only  with  death. 
I    /  Charles    Augustin   Sainte-Beuve,  a    posthumous   child, 

^  was  born  on  the  twenty-third  da}^  of  December,  1804,  at 
Boulogne-on-the-Sea,  a  town  previously  noted  as  the  birth- 
place of  but  one  other  eminent  man,  Daunou.  It  is  a 
noteworthy  fact  that  his  father  was  fifty-two  years  of 
age  when  he  married,  and  that  his  mother  was  then  past 
forty.  A  few  weeks  after  the  marriage  the  father  died; 
but,  though  Sainte-Beuve  never  saw  his  face  or  heard 
his  voice,  he  believed,  contrary  to  the  popular  judgment 
in  such  cases,  that  he  owed  his  distinctive  traits  to  the 
father  rather  than  to  the  mother  who  watched  over 
him  from  infancy,  and  who  lived  with  him  to  her 
eighty-sixth  year.  The  elder  Sainte-Beuve,  a  Commis- 
sioner of  Taxes,  was  a  man  of  cultivated  tastes,  and  left 
a  considerable  number  of  books,  some  of  which  he  had 
annotated  on  the  margin  with  discrimination  and  taste. 
A  copy  of  RioufFe's  Memoirs  has  been  preserved,  which 
he  had  enriched  with  notes  and  reflections  upon  the 
Reign  of  Terror;  for  example,  the  following,  which  would 
hardly  have  been   disavowed  by  his  son:   "Public   repose 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Xlll 

and  tranquillity  cannot  be  the  habitual  state  of  societies: 
the  drop  too  much  always  comes."  These  books  the  son 
read, — the  more  thoughtfully,  no  doubt,  as  they  afforded 
the  only  communion  possible  with  the  one  whom  he  most 
revered  as  the  author  of  his  being.  Of  this  father,  whose 
habits  of  reading  and  of  minute  annotation  he  seems  to 
have  inherited,  he  thus  speaks  in  one  of  his  poems: 

"Mon  pere  ainsi  sentait.     Si,  nedans  sa  mort  meme, 
Ma  memoire  n'eut  pas  son  imago  supreme, 
II  m'a  laisse  du  moins  son  ame  et  son  esprit, 
Et  son  gout  tout  entier  a  chaquc  marge  ecrit." 

In  the  official  documents  of  the  government,  his  father 
is  denominated  de  Sainte-Beuve;  but  as  the  noble  prefix 
was  never  used  by  his  mother,  the  son  dispensed  with  it. 
Perhaps  he  thought,  also,  of  the  pleasantries  of  which  the 
poet  de  B6ranger  was  the  subject.  "  Not  being  noble," 
he  says,  "  I  did  not  wish  to  give  myself  the  air  of  being 
so."  Sainte-Beuve's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  an  Eng- 
lishwoman who  had  married  a  French  sailor;  and  English 
writers  are  fond  of  tracing  to  her  the  keen  predilection 
which  her  son  betrayed  for  Cowper,  Crabbe,  and  the  Lake 
poets  whose  style  of  verse  he  tried  to  reproduce  in  the 
French  tongue.  No  doubt  such  a  crossing  of  the  blood 
has  often  a  happy  issue,  as  may  be  seen  in  Montalembert 
and  G.  H.  Lewes.  M.  D'Haussonville,  Sainte-Beuve's 
biographer,  says  that  Madame  Sainte-Beuve  was  known 
to  many  pex-sons  in  Paris,  who  declare  that  she  was  a 
woman  d'esprit,  de  bon  sens,  et  de  tact.  There  is  more 
reason,  we  think,  for  believing  that  she  was  simply  a 
plain,  warm-hearted,  affectionate  creature,  who  was  more 


XIV  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

anxious  about  her  son's  material  than  about  his  intel- 
lectual wants.  "  He  is  always  without  socks,"  was  the 
good  soul's  exclamation  to  a  female  friend.  As  he  grew 
up,  his  literary  yearnings  troubled  her;  the  career  of  a 
man-of-letters  she  naturally  regarded  as  insufficiently 
lucrative,  and  she  never  felt  easy  till  he  was  elected 
Academician. 

Finishing  at  fourteen  his  rudimentary  studies  at  Bou- 
logne, Sainte-Beuve  begged  his  mother  to  send  him  for  a 
better  education  to  Paris.  There  he  was  put  to  board 
with  M.  Landry,  a  mathematician,  philosopher,  and  free- 
thinker, and  dined  at  his  table,  often  with  men  of  learn- 
ing and  eminence.  "I  was  treated,"  says  Sainte-Beuve, 
"as  a  big  boy,  as  a  little  man."  Attending  successively 
the  colleges  of  Chai'lemagne  and  Bourbon,  he  carried  off 
several  historical  and  Latin  prizes,  and  received  also  from 
the  government  a  medal  as  an  exceptional  recompense, 
after  which  he  studied  medicine  for  nearly  three  years, — 
a  circumstance  to  which,  perhaps,  may  be  traced  his  early 
leaning  toward  materialism.  He  began  life,  he  tells  us, 
as  a  pronounced  adherent  of  the  most  advanced  form  of 
eighteenth  century  philosophy, —  the  philosophy  of  Tracy, 
Daunou,  and  Lamarck;  "there,"  he  says  emphatically, 
"  is  my  true  ground "  (mon  fonds  veritable).  The  spirit 
of  this  school  may  be  judged  from  the  apostrophe  put  by 
M.  Octave  Feuillet  in  one  of  his  dramas  into  the  mouth 
of  one  of  its  chiefs:  "How  should  I  help  believing  in 
the  immortal  soul?  I  have  touched  it  with  my  finger." 
It  was  almost  inevitable,  as  the  biographer  of  our  critic 
rightly  concludes,    that   a   disposition    like  Sainte-Beuve's 


SAINTE-BEDVE.  XV 

should  be  warped  by  such  pursuits.  "One  must  have, 
indeed,  the  soul  and  the  intellect  singularly  inclined  to 
spiritualism,  not  to  feel  an  involuntary  trouble  in  pres- 
ence of  the  mysterious  phenomena  that  physiological  sci- 
ence reveals  to  our  researches.  When  we  see  palpitating 
under  the  dissecting  knife  the  organs  in  which  life  ap- 
pears to  be  concentrated,  we  must  sometimes  be  tempted 
to  forget  that  the  principle  and  the  source  of  life  are 
elsewhere."  Not  the  least  happy  of  the  many  inimitable 
touches  in  the  Prologue  to  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  is  the 
portraiture  of  the  physician,  of  whom  we  are  told  that 
"His  study  was  little  on  the  Bible." 

We  must  not,  however,  interpret  too  literally  Sainte- 
Beuve's  language  touching  his  beliefs  at  this  plastic  period. 
He  was  too  spirituelle  (not  to  say,  too  spiritual),  too 
poetic,  to  adopt  the  hard,  chilling  doctrines  of  the  ma- 
terialistic school  without  a  long  mental  struggle;  and  we 
find  him,  at  this  very  time,  in  a  letter  to  his  school- 
fellow, the  abbe  Barbe,  recognizing  God  as  "the  source 
of  all  things." 

We  may  trace  to  this  period  of  Sainte-Beuve's  med- 
ical studies  not  only  his  philosophical  views,  but  also, 
perhaps,  the  germ  and  first  conception  of  the  method 
which  he  inaugurated  in  literary  criticism.  No  writer,  in 
his  critical  judgments,  has  shown  a  profounder  interest 
in  the  mysterious  influence  of  material  phenomena  upon 
mental  phenomena, —  no  one  has  been  at  more  pains  to 
show  the  action  of  the  temperament  upon  the  mind,  of 
the  physical  nature  upon  the  moral, —  than  Sainte-Beuve. 
No  doubt,  says  D'Haussonville,  that  at  that  period,  as  he 


XVI  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

leaned  over  the  dissecting  table,  his  adventurous  thought 
often  wandered  over  the  shadowy  limits  which  separate 
the  visible  from  the  invisible  world.  "  Besides,  was  not 
criticism,  as  he  finally  understood  and  defined  it,  '  a  true 
course  of  moral  physiology '  ?  Did  he  not  dissect  the 
dead,  and  even  the  living?  No  doubt,  at  that  date,  the 
principles  of  his  future  method  were  confusedly  germi- 
nating in  the  mind  which  literary  curiosity  had  already 
invaded.  Often  does  the  genius  thus  grow  and  strengthen 
in  secret  without  the  knowledge  of  its  possessor,  and  the 
matured  man  is  astonished  one  day  to  find  himself  reap- 
ing the  fruits  which  his  unconscious  youth  has  sown  for 
him." 

Sainte-Beuve  had  scarcely  begun  the  practice  of  medi- 
cine when  a  struggle  arose  in  his  mind  between  its 
claims  and  those  of  the  Muses.  His  pecuniary  resources 
were  very  limited,  and  he  was  compelled  to  watch  closely 
his  smallest  expenditures.  Some  years  later,  when  his 
earliest  books  had  already  been  given  to  the  world,  he 
wrote  to  a  college  friend:  "I  shall  go  and  see  you  some 
Sunday  in  March,  when  I  shall  have  received  the  bill 
which  falls  due  at  that  date,  and  when  twenty  francs, 
more  or  less,  in  my  pocket,  shall  be  of  no  consequence." 
Literature,  he  was  well  aware,  is  a  good  stafl",  but  a  bad 
crutch;  and  though  the  world  of  letters  seemed  a  far 
more  enchanting  one  than  that  of  medicine  and  di-y 
facts,  it  was  not  till  after  a  sharp  mental  conflict  that 
Apollo  and  the  Nine  triumphed  over  Hippocrates  and 
Galen.  Though  he  threw  aside  his  surgeon's  case,  he 
never  ceased    to    be    grateful    to   the  noble    profession  he 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Xvii 

had  left  for  the  direction  it  had  given  to  his  mental  de- 
velopment. To  it  he  attributed  the  philosophical  spirit, 
the  love  of  exactitude  and  of  physiological  reality,  the 
good  method  which  characterized  his  writings;  and  when, 
four  years  later,  the  Faculty  was  attacked  in  the  Senate, 
he  nobly  stood  up  and  defended  it.  In  182-1  M.  Dubois, 
the  Professor  under  whom  he  had  studied  at  the  College 
Charlemagne,  founded  the  Globe,  which  soon  became  the 
most  powerful  literary  journal  in  France.  It  was  the 
organ  of  the  Doctrinaires  in  politics,  and  in  literature  of 
that  powerful  intellectual  movement  which  signalized  the 
last  years  of  the  Restoration,  and  which  seemed  to  be 
working  a  revolution  in  French  literature  and  French 
thought.  Jouffroy,  Remusat,  Ampere,  Merimee,  and  De 
Broglie  were  among  its  contributors,  besides  the  glorious 
trio  of  the  Sorbonne,  as  Sainte-Beuve  called  them,  Gui- 
zot.  Cousin,  and  Villemain;  and  though  the  journal  was 
taunted  with  moderatism  by  the  extremists  of  the  Ro- 
mantic school,  its  articles  were  full  of  freshness  and 
originality,  and  won  the  praise  of  Goethe.  "  The  editors," 
said  the  sage  of  Weimar,  "  are  men  of  the  world,  lively, 
clear-spirited,  and  bold  to  the  very  highest  degree.  They 
have  a  way  of  expressing  disapprobation  which  is  fine 
and  courteous.  Our  German  savants,  on  the  contrary, 
always  think  it  necessary  immediately  to  hate  a  person, 
if  they  don't  happen  to  agree  with  him."  To  this  journal 
Sainte-Beuve  was  invited  to  contribute;  and,  after  he  had 
penned  a  number  of  short  articles  under  the  direction  of 
Dubois,  the  latter  said  to  him  one  day:  '''Now  you  know 
how  to  write,  and  you  can  go  alone." 


XVIU  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Victor  Hugo,  then  in  the  heyday  of  his  youth  and  genius, 
battling  brilliantly  for  fame.  Calling  one  morning  upon 
Sainte-Beuve,  M.  Dubois  showed  him  two  volumes  of  Odes 
and  Ballads,  which  he  desired  him  to  review.  "  They 
are  by  that  young  barbarian,  Victor  Hugo,"  said  he, 
"  who  has  talent,  and  who,  moreover,  is  interesting  on 
account  of  his  life  and  character."  The  criticism  which 
Sainte-Beuve  wrote  was  a  favorable  one,  though  dashed 
with  some  strictures  on  the  extravagances  of  that  "  en- 
fant  sublime,'"  as  Chateaubriand  styled  him:  and  it  led 
to  an  introduction  to  the  rising  author.  Gradually  the 
acquaintance  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  Sainte-Beuve, 
with  his  usual  facility,  became  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
the  doctrines  of  the  Romantic  school  and  of  the  genius 
of  its  chief.  The  principal  merit  of  this  school  was  that, 
like  that  of  the  Lake  poets  in  England,  it  was  essen- 
tially a  protest  against  artifice  and  conventionalism  in 
poetry;  the  fault  of  the  reformers  was  that  they  framed 
canons  and  shibboleths  of  their  own  as  narrow  as  those 
against  which  they  declaimed.  Ere  many  months  Sainte- 
Beuve  became  a  member  of  Le  Cenacle  (the  Guest-Cham- 
ber),  a  kind  of  Mutual  Admiration  Society  of  poets, 
painters,  and  sculptors  in  Paris,  who  had,  each  of  them, 
according  to  his  own  story,  a  masterpiece  in  preparation 
or  conception,  and  all  of  them  together  a  monopoly  of 
French  genius.  Among  these  self-reliant  spirits  were 
Alfred  de  Musset,  Alfred  de  Vigny,  Lamartine,  and  the 
brothers  Deschamps,  who,  meeting  constantly  at  Victor 
Hugo's,  recited  their  new  verses,  and  cheered  each  other 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XIX 

amid  the  storm  of  criticism  by  whicli  they  were  assailed. 
By  degrees  their  intimacy  so  deepened  that  they  called 
each  other  by  their  christian  names;  and,  at  last,  the 
tone  of  familiarity  became  so  general  and  so  catching, 
that,  we  are  told,  M.  Hugo  was  obliged  to  issue  a  per- 
emptory ukaze,  to  prevent  his  wife  from  being  addressed 
as  Adele.  Sainte-Beuve  was  especially  smitten  with  her 
charms,  and  it  was  to  this,  in  part,  that,  later  in  life, 
he  attributed  that  treason  against  the  principles  of  sound 
criticism  into  which  he  was  betrayed  when  he  applauded 
her  husband's  innovations  in  poetry. 

It  was  under  the  influence  of  Victor  Hugo  and  his 
school  that  Sainte-Beuve  made  his  first  formal  contribu- 
tion to  literature, —  a  woi'k  on  the  French  poetry  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century.  The  object  of  this  work  was  two- 
fold,—  to  find  ancestors  for  the  Romantic  school  in  the 
early  French  literature,  de  dresser  leur  arhre  genealogique, 
and  to  rescue  from  oblivion  the  poetry  of  the  pre-clas- 
sical  period,  which  that  of  the .  Grand  Siecle  had  over- 
shadowed. By  choice  extracts  and  felicitous  criticism, 
Sainte-Beuve  showed  triumphantly  that  Moliere,  Racine, 
Corneille,  Boileau,  and  their  successors,  did  not  i-epresent 
the  sum  total  of  French  poetry;  that,  as  there  were  brave 
men  "  before  Agamemnon,"  so  there  were  fine  singers  be- 
fore the  age  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth. 

Among  the  oddities  or  perversities  of  human  nature 
there  is  none  more  unaccountable  than  the  disposition  of 
men  who  have  a  decided  genius  for  a  certain  line  of 
labor,  to  fancy  that  they  were  born  to  distinguish  them- 
selves   in   some  wholly  different    pursuit.      Canova,   when 


t 

XX  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 


his  sculpture  was  praised,  was  sure  to  fetch  a  painting 
that  he  had  just  daubed,  and  display  it  with  a  smile  of 
paternal  pride.  Douglas  Jerrold,  the  wit,  wanted  to 
write  a  treatise  on  natural  philosophy;  Liston,  the  comic 
actor,  who  could  not  wink  without  provoking  laughter, 
believed  that  tragedy  was  his  true  role;  Girardet  valued 
his  verses  far  above  his  pictures;  and  David  mourned  the 
waste  of  his  life  in  painting,  when  he  was  a  born  diplo- 
matist, and,  in  place  of  depicting  Napoleon  scaling  the 
Alps,  might  have  revolutionized  the  politics  of  two  hem- 
ispheres. Who  has  forgotten  the  havoc  which  that  giant 
of  classic  scholarship,  Bentley,  made,  when  he  turned  from 
his  proper  field  of  criticism,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Para- 
dise Lost?  Sainte-Beuve's  good  sense  did  not  save  him 
from  a  similar  weakness.  His  maiden  work  was  pro- 
nounced by  the  "  Revue  Fran9aise "  a  marvel  of  criti- 
cism; but  had  his  friends  congratulated  him  on  having 
found  his  true  vein,  he  would  have  smiled,  it  is  said,  as 
painfully  as  did  Alfred  de  Vigny,  when,  at  the  time  he 
was  meditating  a  rivalry  of  Milton,  some  female  admirers 
cried  out  in  chorus,  "  Oh,  give  us  more  Cmq  Mars;  that 
is  your  line."  Like  many  other  young  men  of  that  time, 
Sainte-Beuve  not  only  had  a  strong  taste  for  poetry,  but 
fully  believed  that  he  was  born  to  achieve  immortality  in 
verse.  Burning  to  enter  the  lists  with  his  brilliant  asso- 
ciates, he  made  his  poetical  entree  in  1829  with  the 
"Life,  Poems,  and  Thoughts  of  Joseph  Delorme." 

It  is  said  that  the  author  had  become  an  admirer  of 
Wordsworth,  Crabbe,  and  Coleridge,  and  was  ambitious 
to  naturalize  in  the  French  language  poetry  of  the  same 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  xxi 

simplicity,  truthfulness,  and  subdued  passion,  drawn  from 
natural  scenery  and  types  of  every-day  life.  There  is 
some  analogy,  pei'haps,  between  the  psychological,  sub- 
jective manner  of  Sainte-Beuve  and  that  of  the  English 
bards;  and  it  may  be  admitted  that  he  succeeded,  to  some 
extent,  in  avoiding  like  them  the  old,  worn-out,  conven- 
tional diction  and  threadbare  mythological  allusions  of 
poetry.  But,  beyond  this,  the  resemblance  fails.  There 
is  no  affinity  between  the  themes  that  inspire  the  French- 
man's song  and  those  of  the  singer  of  Eydal  Mount,  whose 
boast  is  that 

"In  common  things  that  round  us  lie, 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart; 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye, 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart." 

Between  the  healthy,  soul-bracing  sentiments  of  Words- 
worth's men  and  women  and  the  sickly  day-dreams,  the 
fainting  fits  and  frenzies  of  the  moody,  wayward  Joseph 
Delorme,  who  abjured  his  religion  because  science  had 
frozen  the  genial  current  of  his  soul;  who  refused  to 
marry  because  "  his  rather  rude  philanthropy  dreaded  to 
be  permanently  imprisoned  in  too  contracted  affections, 
un  egoisme  a  deux  personnes"' ;  and  who,  at  one  time, 
shut  himself  up  in  a  garret,  to  die  like  the  fabled  swan, 
and  at  another  thought  of  drowning  himself  with  a  Ian- 
tern  around  his  neck, —  there  is  a  gulf  as  broad  as  the 
distance  between  the  poles.  Health,  vigorous,  buoyant, 
sunny-tempered  health  is  the  salient  characteristic  of 
Wordsworth's  genius, —  the  health  that  springs  from  com- 
munion with   Nature    and    Nature's    God;   with    him   the 


XXll  INTRODUCTOEY    ESSAY. 

love  of  nature  is  "  an  appetite,"  and  "  haunts  him  like  a 
passion";  he  sees  and  feels  that  behind  the  forms,  hues, 
and  sounds  of  the  universe,  there  is  something  more  than 
meets  the  external  senses;  and  hence  the  meanest  objects 
become  to  him  full  of  mystery,  and  he  finds  subjects  for 
his  song  in  svich  humble  themes  as  a  pebble  rounded  and 
polished  by  the  brook, —  an  exiled  shell  still  echoing  the 
sound  of  its  native  ocean, —  a  thorn  on  a  hill-side  over- 
grown with  lichens, —  the  notes  of  the  cuckoo, —  the  shad- 
ows of  the  falling  leaves,  dancing  amid  the  sunshine, —  a 
wagon  lumbering  and  creaking  along  the  dusty  high- 
way,—  even  a  meek  ass,  grazing  upon  the  common,  and 
shaking  his  passive  ears  at  the  oaths  and  blows  of  its 
tormentors.  In  place  of  themes  like  these,  Sainte-Beuve 
gives  us  a  series  of  pictures  drawn  from  the  artificial  life 
of  Paris.  In  place  of  that  unapproachable  ideality,  that 
"  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  -all  knowledge,"  which,  in  the 
Ode  to  Immortality,  marks  the  highest  limit  which  the 
tide  of  poetry  has  reached  in  this  century,  we  have  a 
diluted  mixture  of  Byronism  and  Wertherism,  of  Sterne 
and  Rousseau,  of  mawkish  sentiment  and  diseased  fancy, 
—  verse  in  almost  every  page  of  which  there  is  a  taint 
of  melancholy,  an  exhalation  of  the  sick-room  and  the 
grave. 

Sainte-Beuve's  best  excuse  is  that  the  psychological 
condition  which  his  poem  reveals  was  the  malady  of  the 
age.  Joseph  Delorme,  his  hero,  was  of  the  same  family 
of  persons  whom  Melancholy  had  marked  for  her  own, 
as  the  Werthers,  Ren6s,  and  other  imaginary  beings 
whom  Byron  had  made  so  popular  by  his  Childe  Harold. 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXIU 

It  was  a  time  when,  as  a  reviewer  has  said,  "  a  diseased 
liver,  a  heart  complaint,  a  hectic  cough,  or  chronic  dys- 
pepsia, was  mistaken  by  preternatural  self-conceit  for  an 
infallible  mark  of  genius,  and  morbid  self-consciousness 
sought  notoriety,  in  default  of  fame,  at  the  first  grave 
check  or  mortification,  in  suicide."  It  was  at  the  height 
of  this  mania  that  two  young  Parisians,  on  the  fail- 
ure of  a  theatrical  piece  which  they  had  composed,  put 
an  end  to  their  lives  by  charcoal.  The  melodious  wail- 
ings  of  Joseph  Delorme  were  well  received  by  the  Paris- 
ian critics,  but  did  not  meet  with  a  very  sympathetic 
response  from  the  people.  It  is  true  it  was  no  new  gos- 
pel which  he  had  preached.  Chateaubriand  had  labored 
hard  to  propagate  the  worship  of  weariness  and  satiety; 
but  the  French  are  too  lively  a  race,  too  sunny  and 
merry-hearted,  to  take  pleasure  in  being  unhappy.  Tell 
an  Englishman  that  he  is  miserable, —  that  life  is  an  illu- 
sion, and  pleasure  a  snare, —  that  the  world  is  going  to 
the  dogs,  and  he  with  it, —  and  that  he  has  provocation 
enough  to  commit  suicide, —  and  he  will  grasp  your  hand 
and  thank  you.  But  Johnny  Crapeau  has  never  learned 
the  "luxury  of  wo";  he  has  no  relish  for  the  gospel  of 
despair;  and  when  Guizot  ridiculed  the  lugubrious  Joseph 
Delorme  as  "  a  Werther  turned  Jacobin  and  sawbones," 
the  witticism  was  received  with  a  shout  of  laughter  which 
rang  through  Paris. 

Just  one  year  after  the  Poems  of  Joseph  Delorme,  ap- 
peared "  The  Consolations,"  a  collection  of  lyrical  pieces, 
closely  resembling  the  former  in  style,  but  in  its  senti- 
ments absolutely  opposed  to  it.     In  place  of  cold  materi- 


XXIV  IXTEODUCTOEY    ESSAY. 

alism,  of  doubt,  despair,  and  mocking  scepticism,  we  have 
now  a  species  of  religious  mysticism,  and  a  monotony  of 
piety  which  reminds  one  of  Hood's  line  about  persons 
who  think  that  they  "  are  pious,  when  they  are  only  bil- 
ious." Never  did  a  poet  undergo  a  more  startling  revo- 
lution of  sentiments  in  a  twelvemonth.  Victor  Hugo,  we 
are  told,  was  the  high-priest  of  this  conversion,  though, 
at  a  later  day,  Sainte-Beuve  gives  the  credit  with  minute 
particularity  to  Lamartine.  It  is  Hugo  who  has  led  him 
"to  the  source  of  all  consolation";  who  has  led  him  to 
see  that  "  the  other  waters  dry  up,  and  that  it  is  only  on 
the  border  of  the  celestial  Siloe  that  one  can  be  perma- 
nently seated  and  refreshed."  Nevertheless,  there  are 
some  rather  strange  passages  in  this  work  whose  moral 
is  that  there  is  no  happiness,  above  or  below,  except  in 
faith.  '■  The  Confessions,"  undoubtedly  the  best  poem  of 
one  who  was  no  poet,  was  warmly  welcomed  by  Hugo  and 
De  Vigny,  and  won  much  pi-aise  fi'oni  the  public.  "  List- 
en to  your  genius,  sir!"  was  the  characteristic  plaudit  of 
Chateaubriand.  "  I  have  wept,  who  never  weep,"  was  the 
tribute  of  the  sentimental  Lamartine,  whose  cambric  was 
always  wet  with  tears.  The  religious  tone  of  the  work, 
however,  was  distasteful  to  many;  Merim^e  laughed  in 
his  sleeve  at  the  joke,  as  he  considered  it;  and  Beranger 
could  barely  pardon  what  he  called  "  that  rag  of  worship 
thrown  over  a  deist's  faith," — adding,  in  a  letter:  "When 
you  use  the  word  Seigneur,  you  make  me  think  of  those 
old  cardinals  returning  thanks  to  Jupiter  and  all  the 
gods  of  Olympus  for  the  election  of  a  new  Pope."  In 
spite    of  these    gibes,  we    may  believe    in   Sainte-Beuve's 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  XXV 


sincerity,  and  that,  if  he  had  not,  he  at  least  thought  he 
had,  a  religious  visitation  during  "  those  six  celestial 
months  of  his  life,"  as  he  terms  them,  when  he  dashed 
off  the  "Consolations."  The  change  he  underwent  was 
only  one  of  the  various  moral  transformations  which  he, 
who,  chameleon-like,  took  his  hue  from  his  latest  asso- 
ciates, and  was  constant  only  in  his  inconstancy,  passed 
through  until  he  reached  the  last  sad  stage  of  blank 
unbelief  in  which  he  died. 

That  Sainte-Beuve  was  a  skillful  poetic  artist,  we  can- 
not doubt.  Gustave  Planche,  by  no  means  a  partial 
critic,  commends  in  both  of  Sainte-Beuve's  poems  "  the 
truthfulness  of  the  pictures  and  the  thoughts,"  and  the 
admirable  clearness  and  transparency  of  the  style.  But 
it  requires  a  good  deal  more  than  delicacy  of  taste  and 
justness  of  perception  to  make  a  poet;  and  because  he 
lacks  the  divine  spark,  the  God-given  afllatus,  the  mys- 
terious something  which  we  can  all  feel  better  than  we 
can  define, —  because  he  jwssesses  his  genius  rather  than 
is  possessed  by  it,  and  we  feel  that  his  conceptions  are 
elaborated,  and  not  that 

"Across  his  sea  of  mind 
The  thought  comes  streaming  like  a  blazing  ship 
Upon  a  mighty  wind," — 

we  must  pronounce  these  volumes,  products  though  they 
are  of  an  ingenious,  highly-cultured,  and  thoughtful  mind, 
failures  as  poems. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  his  next  effort,  "August 
Thoughts,"  in  which  the  author,  after  another  moral 
somersault,    again    finds   himself  disenchanted,    cries  "All 


XXVI  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY, 

is  vanity,"  and  sits  at  the  feet  of  Werther  and  yearns 
for  death.  This  volume,  fortunately,  proved  a  perfect 
failure,  and  killed  his  poetical  activity,  so  far  as  publi- 
cation was  concerned,  though  he  never  ceased  to  nourish 
the  slumbering  flame,  and,  to  his  latest  hour,  felt  im- 
measurably less  pride  in  his  criticisms  than  in  his  rhymed 
prose.  One  of  his  latest  eflusions  was  a  reply  to  some 
lines  of  Alfred  de  Musset  upon  a  sentiment  in  one  of 
Sainte-BeuvQ's  essays, — "  Every  man  contains  a  dead  poet 
in  his  soul."  That  a  critic  of  such  insight  should  thus 
have  been  unable,  in  his  own  case,  to  discriminate  be- 
tween a  merely  engrafted  talent  of  poetry  and  the  true 
gift, —  between  the  dainty  rhetorical  eftects  of  great  ability 
and  the  products  of  that  genius  which  throws  out  masses 
of  molten  ore,  and  works  as  if  by  magic, —  is  a  signal 
examijle  of  the  blinding  effects  of  self-love.  By  his  latest 
failure  he  seems  to  have  reluctantly  discovered,  that,  in 
the  public  estimation,  criticism,  and  not  poetry,  was  his 
calling,  and  henceforth  we  find  him  pursuing  the  former 
with  undiverted  aim. 

In  1829  the  Bevue  de  Paris  was  founded,  and  Sainte- 
Beuve  began  writing  those  critical  essays  which  are  the 
proudest  monument  of  his  genius,  and  which  have  no 
parallel  in  literature.  His  first  article  was  on  Boileau, 
and  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  "  literary  portrait,"  the 
peculiar  combination  of  biography  and  criticism  in  which 
he  has  no  rival.  In  1830  came  the  July  Revolution 
which  overthrew  the  old  monarchy,  and  the  young  genei*- 
ation  of  writers  breaking  up  into  antagonistic  sections, 
Sainte-Beuve  went  back    to  the  Globe,  which  became  the 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  xxvii 

organ  of  the  Saint-Simonists.  In  the  ferment  of  new 
ideas,  old  friends  became  estranged,  and  personalities 
were  indulged  in,  which,  it  was  thought,  could  be  atoned 
for  only  by  blood.  One  of  the  results  was  a  duel  be- 
tween Sainte-Beuve  and  Dubois,  in  which  the  latter  was 
the  challenger.  When  the  parties  arrived  on  the  ground  it 
was  raining  hard.  After  the  preliminaries  were  arranged, 
the  principals  took  their  places,  but  Sainte-Beuve  took 
his  with  his  pistol  in  one  hand,  and  his  umbrella  over 
him  in  the  other.  When  the  seconds  protested,  he  re- 
plied, "  I  am  willing  to  be  killed,  but  I  am  7iot  willing 
to  be  wet "  {Je  veux  hien  etre  tue;  mais  monille,  non). 
After  four  harmless  shots,  the  seconds,  neither  of  whom 
was  a  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,  decided,  against  the  remon- 
strances of  the  principals,  that  their  honor  was  vindi- 
cated. Though  a  contributor  to  the  Saint-Simonian  or- 
gan,  Sainte-Beuve  took  no  stock  in  the  doctrines  of  the 
"  moonstruck  "  sect.  Ever  greedy  of  new  intellectual  past- 
ure, he  attended  their  religious  services  out  of  curiosity 
merely,  to  see  a  strange  and  interesting  spectacle;  "I 
may  have  smelt  at  the  bacon,"  he  said,  "  but  was  not 
caught  in  the  trap." 

Goethe  has  somewhere  said  that  there  is  no  more  en- 
viable situation  for  a  man  to  find  himself  in,  than  be- 
tween a  love  that  is  ending  and  a  love  that  is  beginning. 
A  quarterly-reviewer  thinks  that  if  this  be  true  of  in- 
tellectual attachments,  Sainte-Beuve  must  have  been  one 
of  the  happiest  of  men.  In  less  than  a  decade,  besides 
exchanging  infidelity  for  faith,  he  had  changed  sides  and 
systems  three  or  four  times.      He  had  been  the  admirer 


xxviii  INTRODUCTOKY   ESSAY. 

or  sat  at  the  feet  of  Hugo,  Leroux,  Carrel,  and  Chateau- 
briand, and  now  was  about  to  find  a  new  Gamaliel  in  a 
prophet  of  Catholicism.  One  of  his  excuses,  says  the 
same  uncharitable  reviewer,  "  was  that  the  critic  was  not 
yet  born  in  him;  but,  tested  by  consistency,  the  critic 
was  never  born  in  him;  he  never  attained  fixity  of  any 
kind,  either  of  head  or  heart;  never,  at  least,  till  that 
period  of  life  when,  like  the  old  coquet,  he  might  be 
compared  to  the  weathercock,  which  became  fixed  only 
when  it  was  rusty."  By  others,  again,  Sainte-Beuve  has 
been  characterized  as  a  sort  of  literary  Don  Juan, —  a 
soul  constantly  on  the  look-out  to  espouse  some  other 
soul,  and  then,  as  soon  as  the  espousals  were  consum- 
mated, as  constantly  looking  out  for  reasons  for  divorce. 
His  literary  idols,  when  once  his  enthusiasm  had  cooled, 
became  to  him,  apparently,  like  those  of  Wordsworth's 
youth,  "  as  dead  as  a  theatre  fx'esh  emptied  of  spectators." 
In  illustration  of  this  fickleness  a  story  is  told  of  the 
way  in  which  he  treated  the  portrait  of  a  popular  novelist. 
Sainte-Beuve  having  commended  his  first  novel,  the  author, 
in  the  first  gush  of  gratitude,  rushed  with  his  portrait  to 
the  critic's  house,  and  presented  the  picture  to  him.  The 
portrait  was  hung  conspicuously  in  Sainte-Beuve's  study. 
Presently  a  second  novel  appeared,  inferior  to  the  first, 
and  the  portrait  was  banished  to  the  ground  fioor.  A 
third  novel  appearing  by  the  same  author,  the  portrait 
went  out  of  the  house  altogether,  and  migrated  from  one 
friend's  house  to  another's,  till  it  vanished  into  regions 
unknown.  So  the  words  of  idolatry  with  which  Alfred 
de  Vigny  was  almost  apotheosized  in  the  "Consolations" 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXIX 

strangely  contrast  with  the  qualified  praise  of  later  years. 
He  who,  in  that  work,  was  the  chantre-elu,  the  ange,  the 
seraphin,  the  apotre  of  his  time,  sank  in  subsequent  es- 
says into  a  common  mortal.  The  truth  is,  Sainte-Beuve 
was  one  of  those  ardent,  eclectic,  impressionable  spirits 
that  cannot  associate  long  with  any  great  mind,  or  set  of 
minds,  without  sympathizing  with  them,  yet  is  too  uni- 
versally sympathetic  to  hold  the  same  sentiments  long. 
He  had  a  boundless  curiosity,  an  unquenchable  thirst  for 
knowledge,  an  insatiable  appetite  for  new  intellectual 
sensations.  Expressed  opinions, —  the  critical  judgments 
at  which  he  arrived  from  time  to  time, —  seemed  to  him 
not  the  grave  matters  of  faith  they  are  with  most  men, 
but  only  temporary  statements,  to  be  modified  from  time 
to  time  by  fresh  facts  and  revelations.  It  is  easy  to  call 
this  openness  and  catholicity  of  mind,  this  watchfulness 
for  and  readiness  to  receive  new  ideas,  inconsistency;  but 
the  word  means  nothing.  Sainte-Beuve  contended  that 
this  mobility  of  mind  was  essential  to  the  complete  study 
of  the  conflicting  systems  which  he  successively  embraced. 
He  persuaded  himself,  his  biographer  tells  us,  that  he 
could  see  more  of  the  edifice  from  within  than  from  with- 
out; and  if,  to  gain  admittance  to  the  consecrated  en- 
closure, it  was  necessary  to  put  on  the  gown  of  the 
neophyte,  nimporte, —  he  did  so  without  scruples  or  hesi- 
tation. "  The  plan  of  the  localities  once  drawn,  he  throws 
away  the  gown,  which  he  always  wore  loosely,  and  will 
wear  it  no  more."  Emerson  calls  a  foolish  consistency 
"the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds";  and  it  is  certain  that 
unless    a    man    is    to    have    cast-iron    opinions,   the    same 


XXX  INTRODUCTORY   ESSAY. 

in  youtli,  maturity,  and  old  age,  he  must  perpetually 
alter  and  modify  his  views  with  the  acquisition  of  new 
and  conflicting  facts.  The  human  mind  is  like  a  tree: 
when  it  has  lost  the  power  of  organic  grov/th,  it  is  al- 
ready beginning  to  decay. 

The  ten  years  from  1830  to  1840  v/as  a  period  of 
transformation  in  Sainte-Beuve's  life,  and  it  was  not  until 
after  the  latter  period  that  his  sentiments  crystallized, 
and  took  that  unchanging  form  of  rationalism  which  was 
the  creed  of  his  last  thirty  years.  Various  as  were  the 
changes  through  which  his  mind  had  passed,  it  had  not 
yet  reached  the  point  where  it  was  self-reliant  and  self- 
centred.  Comprehensive,  subtle,  flexible,  and  facile  as  it 
had  shown  itself  to  be,  it  had  not  yet  learned  to  do 
without  external  supports.  He  still  required  some  master- 
soul  on  which  to  lean;  and  this  time  it  is  at  the  feet  of 
the  fiery  Lamennais  that  he  will  sit.  What  it  was  that 
attracted  him  toward  the  priest  whose  narrowness  and 
bigotry  were  so  opposed  to  his  own  breadth  and  toler- 
ance, we  cannot  tell;  but  probably  it  was  the  fiery  ear- 
nestness, the  intensity  of  conviction,  which  he  half-con- 
sciously  felt  to  be  his  own  chief  need.  The  time  when 
this  intimacy  was  formed,  was  when  Lamennais  had  re- 
turned from  Rome  after  a  vain  attempt  to  ally  Roman- 
ism and  democracy,  and  when  the  deadly  struggle  was 
beginning  in  his  breast  between  his  political  views  and 
his  faith  in  Papal  infallibility.  "  One  was  never  bound 
to  Lamennais  by  halves,"  said  Sainte-Beuve;  and  when, 
after  weeks  and  months  of  gloomy  and  anxious  medita- 
tion, the  i^riest  determined  to  raise  the  standard  of  revolt, 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXXI 

Sainte-Beuve  was  already  so  deep  in  his  confidence  that 
Lamennais  entrusted  to  him  the  care  of  seeing  "  The 
Words  of  a  Believer "  through  the  press.  He  softened 
the  asperity  of  some  passages;  but  the  full  import  of  the 
volcanic  pamphlet  was  not  revealed  to  him  till  the  printer 
brought  him  the  prootfs,  saying:  "My  very  compositors 
cannot  set  it  up  without  being,  as  it  were,  elevated  and 
transported;  the  printing  office  is  all  en  airy  It  was  a 
vehement  diatribe  against  kingcraft  and  priestcraft;  strong 
enough,  says  a  writer,  to  satisfy  the  philosopher  who 
longed  for  the  day  when  the  last  king  should  be  strangled 
with  the  entrails  of  the  last  priest.  Sainte-Beuve  now 
cut  loose  from  the  apostate  champion  of  Catholicism,  say- 
ing bitterly:  "Nothing,  be  assured,  is  worse  than  to  in- 
vite souls  to  the  faith,  and  then  leave  them  without 
warning  in  the  lurch."  Afterward  in  conversation  he 
said:  "Lamennais  has  upset  the  coach  into  the  ditch; 
then  he  has  planted  us  there  after  taking  good  care  to 
blow  out  the  lamp  before  he  took  to  his  heels." 

In  the  limited  space  allowed  us,  we  can  but  hurriedly 
glance  at  the  remaining  points  of  interest  in  Sainte- 
Beuve's  life  and  character,  and  then  shall  proceed  to 
notice  his  last,  best  writings,  the  Causeries  du  Lundi.  In 
1831  was  founded  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  to  which 
Sainte-Beuve  contributed  at  intervals,  for  thirty-seven 
years,  articles  which  were  one  of  its  chief  attractions. 
About  the  same  time  appeared  his  only  novel,  Volupte, 
the  supposed  autobiography  of  a  priest, —  a  man  of  sensual, 
voluptuous  temperament,  who,  after  having  made  conquest 
of  three  women,  to  all  of  whom  he  brought  sorrow,  joins 


XXxii  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

a  religious  order,  and  dies  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  in 
America.  The  story  is  well  told,  but  has  too  much  psy- 
chology for  a  novel,  and  lacks  plot,  passion,  and  power. 
Amaury,  the  hero,  has  been  compared  to  a  showman  who 
exposes  his  moral  ulcers,  and  then  descants  upon  them 
in  pious  langviage.  The  confession,  strange  to  say,  is 
made  for  the  improvement  of  a  young  friend  prone  to 
the  vice  which  gives  the  title  to  the  book, —  a  kind  of 
impure  defense  of  impurity,  which  tempts  us  to  say  to 
the  author,  in  the  words  of  the  Duke  to  Jaques  in  As 
You  Like  It: 

"Fie  on  thee!  I  can  tell  what  thou  wouldst  do, — 
Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin." 

Few  men,  says  Pascal,  speak  humbly  of  humility,  chastely 
of  chastity,  or  doubtingly  of  doubt.  In  spite  of  its  faults, 
the  book  has  reached  a  seventh  edition,  and  Eugenie  de 
Guerin  speaks  of  having  read  it  with  great  interest,  find- 
ing in  it  "  charming  details,  delicious  miniatures,  and 
heart-truths."  In  the  appendix  the  author  publishes 
some  testimonials  from  its  admirers,  which  suggest  the 
criticism  of  an  American  bank  president  upon  a  note 
offered  for  discount:  "This  note"  (looking  at  the  signa- 
ture) "is  bad  enough;  but"  (turning  it  over),  "with  these 
endorsements,  it  is  absolutely  good  for  nothing." 

In  1837,  and  again  afterward,  Sainte-Beuve  declined 
a  distinction  dear  to  Frenchmen,  the  Cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  In  the  fall  of  the  same  year  he  made  a  tour 
in  Switzerland,  and  being  invited  to  become  an  Extra- 
ordinary Professor  in  the  Academy  of  Lausaune,  he  ac- 
cepted, and  delivered  eighty-one   lectures  on  Port-Royal, 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXXIU 

which  formed  the  basis  of  his  work  on  that  subject,  the 
last  volume  of  which  appeared  in  1859.  In  this  great 
work,  which  cost  him  twenty  years  of  research,  and  which 
is  remarkable  alike  for  the  delicate  beauty  of  its  style  and 
the  scrupulous  exactness  of  its  facts,  he  has  told  the  story 
of  that  religious  revival  in  the  seventeenth  century  known 
as  Jansenism,  as  Gibbon  has  told  the  story  of  Rome's  De- 
cline and  Fall, —  for  all  time.  Though  intrinsically  the 
subject  is  somewhat  dry  and  forbidding,  giving  no  scope 
for  brilliant  and  picturesque  handling,  yet  no  one  can 
read  this  account  of  the  Catholic  Puritans  whom  Lewis 
XIV  so  dreaded  and  detested, —  whose  opinions  he  hated 
even  more  than  deism  or  atheism, —  and  whose  vain  but 
heroic  struggle  shook  the  very  pillars  of  the  fabric  of 
Roman  supremacy, —  without  deep  interest  in  the  story, 
and  profound  admii'ation  of  the  genius  that  could  dis- 
entangle it  from  the  perplexities  in  which  it  was  involved. 
The  third  volume,  on  Pascal,  is  a  masterpiece,  which 
those  who  would  see  that  wonderful  writer  dissected  with 
the  skill  of  a  Velpeau, —  laid  bare  in  his  whole  intel- 
lectual and  moral  anatomy, —  should  not  fail  to  study. 

Till  1840  Sainte-Beuve  had,  to  use  Charles  Lamb's 
phrase,  sucked  his  sustenance  as  sick  people  do,  through 
a  quill;  but  in  that  year  he  was  partially  relieved  from 
his  dependence  on  his  pen,  by  being  appointed  keeper  of 
the  Mazarin  Library.  Hitherto  he  had  lived  in  the  plain- 
est and  quietest  way  in  two  small  rooms  on  the  fourth 
floor  of  a  house  near  the  School  of  Medicine,  paying 
for  them  and  his  breakfasts  about  five  dollars  a  month. 
By  "  living  like   a   hermit,  and  working  like  a  horse,"   he 


XXXIV  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

had  contrived  to  live  independently,  without  prostituting 
his  pen  to  any  venal  service;  and  it  was  his  just  pride 
that,  however  paltry  his  earnings,  he  had  never  borrowed 
a  dollar.  In  IS-iS  a  petty  and  false  charge  of  corrup- 
tion, which  cut  him  to  the  quick,  led  him  to  resign 
his  librarianship,  and  he  accepted  a  professorship  at  the 
University  of  Liege.  His  departure,  which  took  place  in 
October,  was  treated  by  his  enemies  as  a  sign  of  guilt 
and  fear;  and  one  writer  went  so  far  as  to  declare  that 
he  had  fled  from  Paris  because  he  was  scared  out  of  his 
wits  by  the  Revolution.  The  simple  fact  was  that  the 
political  excitement  of  this  year  was  unfavorable  to  let- 
ters in  Paris,  and  Sainte-Beuve  was  compelled  to  exile 
himself  for  a  season,  in  order  to  obtain  a  livelihood  in 
the  only  calling  that  was  congenial  to  his  tastes.  Of 
the  Revolution  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  Februai'y  he  thus 
wrote  in  his  note-book:  / 

"What  events!  what  a  dream!  I  was  prepared  for  much,  but 
not  so  soon,  nor  for  this.  ...  I  am  tempted  to  believe  in  the 
nullity  of  every  judgment,  my  own  in  particular — I  who  make  it 
a  business  to  judge  others,  and  am  so  short-sighted.  .  .  .  The 
future  will  disclose  what  no  one  can  foresee.  There  is  no  use  in 
talking  of  ordinary  wisdom  and  prudence :  they  have  been  utterly 
at  fault.  Guizot,  the  historian  philosopher,  has  turned  out  more 
stupid  than  a  Polignac:  Utopia  and  the  poet's  dream,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  become  facts  and  reality.  I  forgive  Lamartine  every- 
thing: he  has  been  great  during  these  days,  and  done  honor  to 
the  poetic  nature." 

At  a  later  day  he  changes  his  tone,  and  thus  playfully 
satirizes  "the  good  provisional  government,  which  did  so 
many  things,  and  left  so  many  undone": 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXXV 

"The  fortunes  of  France  crumbled  to  pieces  in  a  fortnight, 
but  it  was  under  the  invocation  of  equality  and  fraternity.  As 
to  liberty,  it  only  existed  for  madmen,  and  the  wise  took  good 
care  to  make  no  use  of  it.  'The  great  folk  are  terribly  scared,' 
said  my  portress,  but  the  small  fry  triumphed:  it  was  their  turn. 
So  much  had  never  been  said  about  work  before,  and  so  little 
was  never  done.  People  walked  about  all  day,  planted  liberty- 
trees  at  every  street-corner,  illuminated  willy-nilly,  and  perorated 
in  the  clubs  and  squares  until  midnight.  The  Exchange  rang 
with  disasters  in  the  morning:  in  the  evening  it  sparkled  with 
lanterns  and  fireworks.  It  was  the  gayest  anarchy  for  the  lower 
classes  of  Paris,  who  had  no  police  and  looked  after  themselves. 
ITie  street-boys  ran  about  with  flags;  workmen  without  work,  but 
paid  nevertheless,  walked  in  perpetual  procession;  the  demireps 
bad  kicked  over  the  traces,  and  on  the  sidewalks  the  most  vir- 
tuous fellow-citizenesses  were  hugged  without  ceremony:  it  must 
be  added  that  they  did  not  resent  it  too  much.  The  grisettes, 
having  nothing  to  eat,  gave  themselves  away  for  nothmg  or  next 
to  nothing,  as  during  the  Fronde.  The  chorus  of  the  Girondists 
was  sung  on  every  open  lot,  and  there  was  a  feast  of  addresses. 
Lamartine  wrought  marvels  such  as  Ulysses  might  have  done,  and 
he  was  the  siren  of  the  hour.  Yet  they  laughed  and  joked,  and 
the  true  French  wit  revived.  There  was  general  good  humor  and 
amiability  in  those  first  days  of  a  most  hcentious  spring  sunshme. 
There  was  an  admixture  of  bad  taste,  as  there  always  is  in  the 
people  of  Paris  when  they  grow  sentimental.  They  made  gro- 
tesque little  gardens  around  the  liberty-trees,  which  they  watered 
assiduously.  .  .  .  The  small  fry  adored  their  provisional  govern- 
ment, as  they  formerly  did  their  good  king  Louis  XII,  and  more 
than  one  simple  person  said  with  emotion,  '  It  must  be  admitted 
that  we  are  well  governed,  they  talk  so  well!'  "* 

Hardly  three  months  had  elapsed  before  the  provisional 
government  fell  to  pieces,  an  event  which  Sainte-Beuve 
thus  pungently  characterizes: 

"The  politicians  of  late  years  have  been  playing  a  game  of 
chess,  intent  wholly  upon  the  board,  but  never  givmg  a  thought 
*"Le8  Cahiers  de  Saintc-Beuve." 


XXXVl  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

to  the  table  under  the  board.  But  the  table  -was  alive,  the  back 
of  a  people  which  began  to  move,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  chessboard  and  men  went  to  the  devil." 

At  Liege  Sainte-Beuve  gave  a  special  course  of  lectures 
on  Chateaubriand, —  since  published  in  two  volumes, —  a 
masterpiece  of  literary  criticism,  in  which  the  foibles  and 
inconsistencies  of  the  great  egotist  who  began  every  other 
sentence  with  the  personal  pronoun  I,  and  whose  Me- 
moirs, as  Geox'ge  Sand  said,  are  full  of  grandes  poses  et 
de  draperies,  are  exposed  with  merciless  skill.  The  real 
merits  of  the  flattered  writer  were  still  acknowledged; 
but  into  the  weak  parts  of  his  artistic  and  moral  .nature 
the  probe  was  thrust  to  the  very  handle.  That  this 
literary  divinity,  before  whom  so  much  incense  had  been 
burned,  should  now  snuff  /ror»A--incense, —  above  all,  that 
Sainte-Beuve,  whose  praise  had  once  been  so  enthusiastic, 
should  now  dare  to  pronounce  the  old  idol  a  false  god, — 
was  thought  by  many  a  gross  outrage.  A  great  outcry 
was  raised  against  the  iconoclast  by  the  critics,  and  there 
was  no  end  of  the  ugly  names  by  which  he  was  called. 
His  defense  was  that  when  he  praised  Chateaubriand  so 
fervidly,  he  was  yet  in  his  youth,  and  was  influenced  by 
the  charms  of  Madame  Recamier,  in  whose  saJon  he  had 
heard  a  part  of  the  "Memoirs"  read;  whereas  now  he 
had  become  older  and  wiser,  and  judged  the  work  in  his 
study  without  the  illusion  of  wax-lights  and  flowei's,  and 
uninfluenced  by  the  heaux  esprits,  the  creme  de  la  creme 
of  society,  which  used  to  gather  about  her.  The  simple 
fact  was,  that  Sainte-Beuve  did  not  know  the  whole  truth 
about  the    veteran    man-of-letters    until    the    entire  seven 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  XXXVll 

volumes  of  his  "Memoirs"  were  published;  and  that  the 
critic's  inconsistency  was  merely  a  sign  of  his  fresh  knowl- 
edge, and  a  determination  to  tell  the  truth  without  fear 
or  favor. 

In  1850  Sainte-Beuve  returned  from  Belgium  to  Paris. 
The  next  year  came  the  coup  d'etat,  and  he  gave  in  his 
adhesion  to  Napoleon  III.  The  year  after  he  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  Latin  at  the  College  of  France;  but, 
when  he  attempted  to  lecture,  was  hissed  by  the  students 
from  the  hall.  The  cause  of  this  explosion  was  an  article 
contributed  by  Sainte-Beuve  to  the  "  Constitutionnel."  in 
which,  with  the  adroitest  and  most  subtle  satire,  he 
rallied  the  disaffected  politicians  of  the  day  for  their  op- 
position to  the  government.  With  exquisite  mock-gravity 
he  put  on  his  old  phj^sician's  cap,  and  made  a  diagnosis  of 
the  political  diseases  of  the  time,  which  he  characterized 
as  le  mal  du  pouvoir  perdu,  et  le  mal  de  la  parole  perdue. 
In  conclusion,  he  says:  "For  myself,  I  can  have  no  great 
pity  for  people  whom  no  other  misfortune  has  befallen 
than  that  of  no  longer  governing  me "  {de  ne  me  plus 
gouverner).  In  1865  he  was  made  Senator  of  France, 
in  which  capacity  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  inde- 
pendence of  the  appointing  Imperial  power, —  especially 
by  his  championship  of  religious  liberty.  His  defense  of 
Renan,  in  particular,  won  back  the  friends  whom  he  had 
estranged;  and  when  a  deputation  from  the  schools  of 
Paris  waited  on  him  and  testified  their  admiration,  he 
was  probably  one  of  the  most  popular  literary  men  of 
France. 

The  year   1840  may    be   termed   the   turning-point   in 


XXXVlll  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

Sainte-Beuve's  life.  Up  to  that  time  his  judgment  had 
been  taken  captive  by  many  enthusiasms,  and  in  the  hot 
blood  of  youth  he  had  become  again  and  again  impas- 
sioned for  ideas  which  he  afterward  learned  to  regard 
with  indifference.  His  writings  thus  far  had  shown  that 
the  critical  faculty  in  him  was  far  stronger  than  the 
creative;  and,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  it  triumphed  over 
all  the  other  faculties,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to  that 
calling  for  which  Nature  had  preeminently  C[ualified  him. 
Between  1840  and  1845  appeared  his  "  Literary  Portraits  " 
and  his  "  Portraits  of  Contemporai'ies,"  which  made  his 
name  famous  in  France,  and  won  for  him  a  place  in  the 
Academy,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  Victor  Hugo,  who 
voted  against  him  eleven  times.  After  his  return  from 
Belgium  to  Paris  in  1850,  he  was  hesitating  about  what 
to  do,  when  De  V6ron.  the  editor  of  the  "  Constitution- 
nel,"  invited  him  to  write  a  series  of  weekly  literary 
articles  for  that  journal.  At  first,  the  proposal  both 
flattered  and  frightened  him.  The  "  Constitutionnel " 
numbered  its  readers  by  thousands,  and  how  was  he, 
accustomed  to  the  leisurely  style  of  reviews,  to  talk  to 
such  a  public, —  so  many-headed  and  so  vainous, —  of 
pure  literature  and  criticism?  How,  especially,  was  he 
to  interest  it  in  such  topics  in  "  those  times  of  polit- 
ical preoccupation  and  tempest?" 

Dr.  V6ron  overcame  these  objections, —  his  offer  was 
accepted,  and  the  result  was  a  sei'ies  of  masterly  literary 
portraits,  full  of  grace  and  fascination,  which  have  no 
parallel  in  the  literature  of  the  world.  What  literary 
man    among    us    has    forgotten    how    they  electrified    the 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  XXXIX 

hlase  public?  What  reader  of  French  literature  does 
not  recall  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  tingling  through 
every  nerve,  the  first  half-dozen  volumes  that  blazed  on 
us  twenty-four  years  ago?  How  joyfully  we  paid  down 
the  price  for  them,  as  we  pounced  upon  them  at  the 
bookstore;  or,  if  another  had  got  the  start  of  us,  how  we 
begged,  borrowed,  or  snatched  them  from  the  lucky  pos- 
sessor! How  we  read,  and  wondered,  and  felt  as  if 
borne  along  on  a  sparkling  torrent!  What  a  breadth, 
depth,  and  minuteness  of  knowledge, —  what  a  freshness 
of  treatment  of  old  topics, —  what  sagacity  and  penetra- 
tion,—  what  a  command  of  illustration, —  what  a  famili- 
arity with  foreign  literatures, —  and  all  the  facts  and 
thoughts  conveyed  in  a  style  so  delicate,  so  brilliant,  so 
even,  so  strong;  touching  all  themes,  not  with  the  black- 
smith's hand  of  iron,  but  with  the  surgeon's  hand  of 
steel!  It  is  said  to  be  a  characteristic  of  genius  to 
clothe  with  fresh  interest  the  well-jjicked  bones  of  a  sub- 
ject; tried  by  this  test,  Sainte-Beuve  must  rank  among 
the  Soyers  and  Savarins  of  letters.  Nothing  could  be 
more  hacknej^ed  than  many  of  his  themes,  out  of  which, 
apparently,  the  last  drop  of  interest  had  been  squeezed 
years  ago:  A^et.  in  his  hands,  though  drained  to  the  very 
dregs,  they  receive  a  redintegration  of  essence  hardly  less 
miraculous  than  the  conversion  of  dry  bones  into  living 
beings. 

It  was  now  that  the  insatiable  and  restless  curiosity  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  that  tendency  to  successive  enthusiasms  and 
successive  repentances,  which  had  been  in  some  degree  a 
source  of  weakness  to  him,  proved,  along  with  his  inex- 


^ 


xl  INTRODUCTOKY    ESSAY. 

haustible  love  of  letters,  a  source  of  strength.     The  very 
exigencies  of  the  press,—  the  clatter  of  the  engine  and  the 
cry  of  the    printer's    devil, —  the  hurry  and    severe    com- 
pression from  an  instant  summons  that  brooked  no  delay, 
—  had  a  tendency  to  improve  his  style.     They  proved  the 
flint  and  steel  for  eliciting   sudden  scintillations  of  origi- 
nality,—  displayed  at  one   time  in  the  picturesque  felicity 
of  the   phrase,  at  another  in  the  thought  or  its  illustra- 
tion.     Indeed,  both  M.  Guizot  and  M.  Littre  said  of  the 
"Causeries"  that  "  they  were  so  much  the  better  that  he 
had  not  had  time  to  spoil  them."      His  manner,  hitherto 
artificial,    oblique,    and    discursive,    is    now   I'apid,    direct, 
and  decisive.      He    is    no    longer    open    to    the    charge  of 
Balzac,  that  he  wrote  not  French,  but  rather  a  new  lan- 
guage which  might  properly  be  called  Sainte-Beuve.     He 
no  longer  coquets  with  his  themes,  but  looks  them  full  in 
the  face,  and  pronounces  his  literary  judgments  with  the 
positiveness    of   deep    conviction    and    the    fearlessness    of 
conscious  strength.     We  feel  that  we  are  in  the  hands  of 
a  master  of  his  art,  while  the  minute  biographic  details, 
the  literary  allusion,   and  the  historic   anecdote  invest  it 
with   an  indescribable   charm.      The  style   is  so  easy  and 
natural  that  we  feel,   as  we   read,  that  it  would   be   easy 
to  write  such  essays  ourselves;    and  yet  nothing  is  m.ore 
certain  than   that  to  reproduce   their  charm  would  be  as 
hojieless  as  an  attempt  to  reproduce  the  delicious  egotism 
of   Montaigne,  the    subtle    grace   of  La   Fontaine,  the  vi- 
vacity, wit,  and  sparkle  of  Voltaire,  or  the   sly,  tickling, 
temeritous  humor  of  Charles  Lamb. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that,  because  these  papers  of 


1 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  xli 

Sainte-Beuve  were   produced  rapidly,   they  therefore    cost 
but  little  toil.     Alluding  to  the  labor  demanded  for  them, 
the  author  said:  "I  descend  on  Tuesday  into  a  well,  from 
which  I  emerge   only  on   Sunday."      M.  Scherer,  his  best 
critic,  truly  says  that  they  were  issued  from  a  Benedic- 
tine's  cell.     When  we   reflect   on   the    prodigious    amount 
of  reading  and  observation  which  are  condensed  into  one 
of  these  brief  papers,  we  are  surprised  that  Sainte-Beuve 
was  able  to  complete  one  of  them  in  the  five  days  of  the 
week  in  which  he  was  shut  up  at  the  forge,  and  almost 
invisible  even  to  his  most  intimate  friends.     Think  what 
an  enormous    amount    of   toil. —  what    an    expenditure  of 
investigation    and    thought, —  is  implied  in  the  successful 
prosecution    of   such  a  task    for  twenty  or    thirty  years! 
The  "Causeries  du  Lundi"  Avere    begun    in   the  "  Consti- 
tutionnel,"  and  continued  in  the  "  Moniteur,"  from  1849 
to  1869, —  making,  with  the  "  Nouveaux  Lundis,"  and  the 
"Portraits    Litteraires"   and    "Portraits   Contemporains," 
previously  written,  more  than   forty  volumes   of  literary, 
historical,    and    biographical    essays,    on    the    most    extra- 
ordinary variety  of   subjects,   and    all    executed   with    the 
most  conscientious  care  and  accuracy,  so  as  to  be  as  per- 
fect as  the  author's  time  and  space  would  permit. 

It  is  easy  to  write  an  average  literary  criticism, — 
especially  of  the  fulsome,  laudatory,  or  savage,  cut-and- 
thrust  kind,  which  we  find  in  many  American  journals. 
For  such  a  purpose,  little  preparation  is  required  ;  you 
have  only  to  cut  the  leaves  of  the  book  to  be  reviewed, 
and  then  smell  of  the  paper-knife.  But  to  discuss  the 
most  various  and  heterogeneous  themes  with  never-failing 


:xlii  INTEODUCTORY    ESSAY, 

originality,  accuracy,  and  knowledge, —  to  give  proofs  on 
every  page  of  .careful,  painstaking  research,  study,  and 
thought, —  to  penetrate  to  the  core  of  every  author,  and 
pluck  out  "'the  heai"t  of  his  mystery," — to  live .  with 
hiui  in  his  times,  to  feel  with  his  feelings,  and  think  his 
thoughts, —  in  short,  to  be  completely  en  rapjiort  with 
him, —  above  all,  to  give  the  results  in  a  style  of  exqui- 
site clearness,  terseness,  and  beauty, —  and,  again,  to  do 
all  this  for  more  than  twenty  years, —  is  a  task  which 
would  seem  to  require,  not  one  pair  of  brains  and  one 
pair  of  hands,  but  the  brains  and  hands  of  an  Academy. 
The  topics  of  Sainte-Beuve,  gathered  from  the  whole 
realm  of  literature,  seem  to  be  almost  expresslj^  chosen 
to  show  how  vast  is  his  comprehension,  and  how  wide 
the  range  of  his  sympathies.  Men  and  women,  orators 
and  philosophers,  poets  and  prose-writers,  statesmen  and 
generals,  wits  and  beauties,  politicians  and  economists, 
freethinkers  and  theologians.  Catholics  and  Protestants, 
all  in  turn  flit  across  his  magic  page,  and  in  an  instant 
are  vividly  and  accurately  photographed. 

Nothing  is  more  surprising  than  this  perpetual  an- 
tithesis in  Sainte-Beuve's  themes;  the  delight  with  which, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  be  brings  into  juxtaposition 
the  most  incongruous  personages.  In  his  page  Bayle 
fraternizes  with  Pascal,  Racine  hobnobs  with  Hugo.  On 
one  Monday  you  listen  to  the  sparkling  wit  of  Voltaire, 
on  another  to  the  grave  and  weighty  wisdom  of  Guizot. 
Now  you  are  treated  to  the  terse  and  exquisite  sense  of 
Joubert,  and  anon  to  the  lachrymose  confessions  of  the 
Narcissus  of  France, —  the  disenchanted,  used-up,  and  self- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  xliii 

admiring  Lamartine.  This  week  Mirabeau  is  brought 
before  you  with  his  voice  of  thunder,  his  lofty  port,  and 
lion-like  mane  of  hair;  the  next,  you  are  tasting  the 
quintessence  of  Chamfort's  sparkling  wit,  or  listening  to 
the  rasping  repartees  of  Madame  du  Deffand.  At  one 
time  you  are  hearkening  with  delight  to  the  chirrup,  now 
gay  and  mocking,  now  sad  and  tender,  of  Beranger;  at 
another,  you  are  quailing  at  the  scream  of  "  the  eagle  of 
Meaux."  To-day,  Montaigne  charms  you  with  his  gossipy 
self-revelations  and  shrewd,  racy  remark;  to-morrow  you 
listen  to  the  despotic  accent  of  Napoleon,  the  resonant, 
silvery  voice  of  Montalembert,  or  the  musical  tones  of 
Fenelon.  Sainte-Beuve,  seems,  in  short,  to  have  taken  his 
motto  from  Horace, — 

"  Nullius  addictus  jurare  in  verba  magistri, 
Quocunque  me  rapit  tempestas,  deferor  hospes," 

and  he  is  equally  at  home  with  persons  of  the  most  opposite 
schools, —  with  Renan  and  Bonald,  Comte  and  Cousin, 
Chateaubriand  and  Corneille,  Littre  and  Lacordaire.  He 
can  appreciate  alike  the  cold,  classic  elegance  of  Boileau, 
and  the  fiery  fervor  of  Alfred  de  Musset;  he  can  relish 
the  worldly  wisdom  of  Chesterfield,  in  spite  of  his  "  mor- 
als of  a  harlot  and  manners  of  a  dancing-master,''  and 
keenly  enjoy  the  epigrammatic  point,  the  chiselled  fine- 
ness, and  statuesque  relief  of  De  Maistre's  inimitable  style, 
notwithstanding  his  dogmatism,  and  though,  in  his  ultra- 
montane  zeal,  he  gives  to  truth  itself  the  air  of  paradox 
and  the  accent  of  defiance.  Nor  is  this  eagle-eyed  critic 
content  to  limit  his  range  to  the  fields  of  French  liter- 
ature and   history;   he   makes  less  frequent,  but  not  rare 


xliv  IXTKODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

flights  into  the  regions  of  foreign  and  of  ancient  history 
and  poetry.  Of  .this  we  have  examples  in  his  brilliant 
papers  on  Cowper,  Pope,  Gibbon,  Goethe,  Grimm,  Fred- 
eric the  Great,  Franklin.  Dante,  Galiani,  Firdonsi,  The- 
ocritus, Virgil,  and  Pliny. 

Though  the  busiest  of  workers,  Sainte-Beuve  fully  rec- 
ognized the  importance  of  idleness.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  that  all  of  our  best  knowledge  is  acquired  in  hours 
which  unresting  plodders  consider  lost, —  that,  as  Claude 
Tillier  says,  "ie  temps  le  mieiix  employe  est  celui  que 
Von  perdy  He  was  well  aware  that  the  petty  cares,  the 
minute  anxieties,  the  microscopic  distractions,  the  infinite 
littles  which  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  human  experi- 
ence, are  all  helps  as  well  as  hindrances  to  a  writer,  and 
like  the  invisible  granules  of  powder,  give  the  highest 
polish  to  character.  "I  have  arrived,"  he  says,  "perhaps 
by  way  of  secretly  excusing  my  own  idleness,  perhaps  by 
a  deeper  feeling  of  the  principle  that  all  comes  to  the 
same,  at  the  conclusion  that  whatever  I  do  or  do  not, 
working  in  the  study  at  continuous  labor,  scattering  my- 
self in  articles,  spreading  myself  about  in  society,  giving 
my  time  away  to  troublesome  callers,  to  poor  people,  to 
rendezvous,  in  the  street,  no  matter  to  whom  or  to  what, 
I  cease  not  to  do  one  and  the  same  thing,  to  read  one 
and  the  same  book,  the  infinite  book  of  the  world  and  of 
life,  that  no  one  ever  finishes,  in  which  the  wisest  read 
farthest;  I  read  it  then  at  all  the  pages  which  present 
themselves,  in  broken  fragments,  backward,  what  mat- 
ters itV  I  never  cease  going  on.  The  greater  the  med- 
ley, the    more  frequent  the   interruption,  the  more  I  get 


SAIXTE-BEUTE.  xlv 

on  with  this  book  in  which  one  is  never  beyond  the 
middle;  but  the  profit  is  to  have  had  it  open  before  one 
at  all  sorts  of  different  pages." 

The  uniform  excellence  of  Sainte-Beuve's  criticisms 
would  be  unaccountable,  considering  their  marvellous 
number  and  variety,  could  we  not  lift  the  curtain  of  his 
study,  and  see  the  artist  at  work.  It  is  doubtful  if  a 
critic  ever  lived  who  had  a  loftier  ideal,  and  a  pro- 
founder  horror  of  the  a  pen  pres.  He  never  began  to 
write  upon  any  subject  until  he  had  fully  cleared  the 
ground  before  him.  He  ventured  no  opinion  of  a  book 
or  its  author  till  he  had  bottomed  them.  Though  gifted 
with  an  extraordinary  aptitude  for  collecting  precisely 
the  kind  of  material  that  he  needed,  as  well  as  for  ar- 
ranging and  classifying  it,  and  for  perceiving  its  mutual 
relations,  he  devoted  to  the  preparation  of  one  of  his 
'■  Lundis "  the  six  working-days  of  a  laborious  week. 
Assisted  by  an  intelligent  secretary,  he  began  every  Mon- 
day morning  to  prepare  the  article  of  the  coming  Mon- 
day. During  the  first  three  days,  his  secretary  was  busy 
in  collecting  all  books  and  documents  discoverable  concern- 
ing the  matter  in  hand,  and  in  reading  and  commenting 
on  them  in  company  with  the  critic.  Meanwhile  a  rough 
outline  of  the  article  had  been  dictated.  Sainte-Beuve  fill- 
ing in  blanks,  and  making  additions  with  his  own  hand. 
On  the  fourth  day  Sainte-Beuve  ruminated  on  the  article 
already  planned  in  his  brain;  and  thus  on  Friday,  when 
he  began  its  actual  composition,  "  his  mind  had  already 
been  disciplined  into  a  state  of  the  most  complete  readi- 
ness, like  the  fingers  of  a  musician  who  has   been   prac- 


xlvi  INTRODUCTOEY    ESSAY. 

ticing  a  piece  before  he  executes  it  in  public."  On  the 
fifth  da}-  the  "  Lundi  "  was  carefully  written,  copied,  and 
revised,  and  sometimes  written  again.  In  this  way  he 
labored  for  twelve  hours  daily,  refusing  to  receive  visit- 
ors, or  to  be  interrupted  in  any  way,  and  taking  no  re- 
laxation till  evening.  On  Saturday  the  manuscript  was 
ready  for  the  printer,  and  Sainte-Beuve  took  it  to  the 
office  of  the  "  Constitutionnel,"  and  read  it  to  Yeron,  the 
editor,  who,  though  not  a  man  of  genius,  had  an  instinct- 
ive perception  of  what  was  likely  to  please  the  public. 
After  listening  to  Veron's  suggestions,  the  author  had  the 
article  put  in  type;  another  revision  was  then  made  as 
minute  and  searching  as  the  first,  and  the  essay  was  at 
last  ready  for  publication.  When  it  finally  appeared,  the 
accuracy  and  aptness  of  every  quotation,  and  the  correct- 
ness of  every  name  and  date,  were  as  remarkable  as  the 
artistic  finish  and  consummate  eflFect  of  the  whole.  One 
of  the  very  latest  "  Lundis "  was  a  paper  on  "  Jomini," 
displaying  not  only  the  usu.al  acuteness  of  the  critic,  but 
a  surprising  mastery  of  the  technical  difficulties  of  the 
theme. 

But  what,  it  will  be  asked,  was  the  secret  of  Sainte- 
Beuve's  rare  excellence  as  a  critic, —  what  were  his  qualifi- 
cations, and  what  was  his  method?  First,  that  he  was  a 
man  of  great  originality  and  power,  with  a  rare  and 
strongly  marked  individuality,  is  evident  at  a  glance. 
What  were  the  distinctive  traits  of  this  individualitv,  it 
is  exceedingly  difficult  to  say.  We  read,  and  are  fasci- 
nated by,  his  books;  we  analyze  his  poems,  his  history, 
his  novel,   and  his  criticisms;    we  learn,  in   some  degree, 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  xlvii 

the  secrets  of  his  art  and  his  processes;  but  of  the  man 
himself,  in  his  essence,  in  his  inmost  being,  we  know 
almost  nothing.  The  keenest  analyst  of  others,  he  him- 
self defies  analysis.  Belonging  to  no  sect  or  party,  po- 
litical, social,  or  religious, —  having  no  assiette,  no  point 
d'appui. —  he  refuses  to  be  classified,  ticketed,  or  labelled; 
to  go  into  any  of  our  pigeon-holes.  "  We  set  our  formu- 
las for  him  like  traps,"  says  one  of  his  reviewers,  "but 
he  is  too  wary  to  be  caught  in  any  of  them."  He  eludes 
all  our  detective  methods,  and  puzzles  and  perplexes  us 
like  another  Proteus. 

A  circumstance  which  increases  the  diflBculty  of  defin- 
ing and  appraising  this  literary  appraiser  is  the  paradoxes 
in  his  intellectual  and  moral  character.  Among  these  was 
"a  respect  for  tradition  amounting  to  reverence,  and  a 
readiness  to  welcome  novelties  akin  to  a  passion."  Pro- 
foundly venerating  truths  hallowed  by  time,  he  hailed 
with  joy  every  new  discovery,  and  bade  farewell  without 
pain  to  the  most  cherished  illusion.  Especially  did  he 
abhor  all  cast-iron  rules  and  precedents,  all  fixed  formulas 
which  interfere  with  the  most  perfect  freedom  of  judg- 
ment. "The  time,"'  he  declared,  "was  past  for  pronounc- 
ing decisions  in  the  mere  name  of  literary  tradition."  It 
was  this  dislike  of  fixity  of  opinion,  of  intellectual  immo- 
bility, which,  in  part,  led  him  to  leave  the  "Romantic" 
school  of  poets,  to  which  he  had,  early  in  life,  given  in 
his  adhesion.  His  so-called  "treachery"  to  that  alliance 
was  owing  partly  to  a  perception  of  their  extravagances, 
and  partly  to  a  perception  of  the  fact  that  to  establish 
schools  in  literature,  to  wear  their  badges  and  to  repeat 


xlviii  INTEODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

their    watchwords,  tends  to  fetter    the  judgment    and    to 
limit  one's  intellectual  freedom. 

In  one  of  his  essays  he  quotes  with  warm  approval  a 
passage  from  Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe  on 
this  point:  "What,"  asks  Goethe,  "does  all  this  fuss  about 
classic  and  romantic  mean?  All  that  is  necessary  is  to 
produce  works  that  are  truly  good  and  solid,  and  they  are 
sure  to  become  classic."  So  thought  Sainte-Beuve;  to 
make  a  work  classic,  it  was  enough,  he  believed,  that  it 
was  good, —  that  it  was  true  to  nature  and  to  art,  and  a 
genuine  contriljution  to  human  thought.  In  a  paper  en- 
titled "What  is  a  Classic?"  he  says:  "A  true  classic  is  an 
author  who  has  done  something  to  enrich  the  human 
mind;  who  has  really  added  to  its  wealth:  who  has  caused 
it  to  take  another  step  forward;  who  has  discovered  some 
incontestable  moral  truth,  or  caught  sight  in  the  human 
heart,  where  everything  seemed  known  and  explored,  of 
some  unrecognized  but  eternal  human  passion:  who  has 
expressed  his  thought,  his  observation,  or  his  discovery,  in 
some  form,  no  matter  what,  which  is  at  once  large  and 
grand,  delicate  and  judicious,  healthy  and  charming;  who 
has  addressed  everybody  in  a  style  of  his  own,  which  is 
yet  the  style  of  everybody, —  a  style  at  once  new  and 
antique,  and  which  may  readil}''  be    current  in  all  ages." 

As  a  critic,'  Sainte-Beuve  was  impartial  to  a  fault.  It 
is  safe  to  say  there  never  was  a  literary  judge  who  was 
more  indefatigable  in  collecting  the  materials  for  his  de- 
cisions, or  who  tried  more  earnestly  to  keep  his  mind 
from  all  bias,  and  from  every  influence  which  could  in- 
terfere, in  the  slightest  degree,  with  the  clearness,  vivid- 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  xlix 

ness,  and  truthfulness  of  its  impressions.     His  jealousy  of 
himself  was  carried,  at  times,  to  an  almost  ridiculous  ex- 
treme.    So  keenly  was  he  sensible,  and  so  morbidly  fear- 
ful, of   the    influence  of   friendship    upon    one's    opinions, 
that  he  sacrificed,  it  is  said,  some  of  his  pleasantest  inti- 
macies to  his  love  of  impartiality.     He  also,  late  in  life, 
avoided  forming  new  ties  that  might  possibly  hamper  his 
freedom  of  speech.   •  Not  less  was  he  on  his  guard  against 
any  bias   arising   from    personal    predilections  and    preju- 
dices,—  from  the  secret   leanings  which,  it   has  been  said, 
"  haunt  every  man   as   his  shadow,"  and  warp   the   mind 
from  absolute  straightforwardness  and  rectitude.     Especi- 
ally strong  was  his  aversion  to  all    metaphysical  systems 
which    profess  to  unfold  the  essential    laws  of   being  and 
the  true  idea  of   the  universe.      They  seemed    to    him  as 
only    so    many    prison-houses    of    the    human    spirit.      In 
striking  contrast  to  the  famous  maxim  of  Goethe,  he  de- 
clared   that    he  would  willingly  take  "the  true,  the  true 
only,"  as  his   device,  leaving  "the    good  and    the  beauti- 
ful" to  take  care  of  themselves.    To  ascertain  this  truth, 
he    was    never  weary   of   re-opening    and    reexamining    a 
subject,    of    studying    it    in    every   possible    light,    and   of 
testino-  his  very  latest  and  most  laboriouslv  obtained  con- 
elusions    by  a    fresh    analysis.      He    hated    ever    to  admit 
that  the  last  word    had    been    spoken,  that  the    pleadings 
were  closed,  and   that   the  cause  was  ripe  for  judgment. 
"  Criticism,"  he  once  wrote,  "  is  an  invention,  a  perpetual 
creation.     One   needs   to    renew,  to  repeat  continually  his 
observation    and    study  of   men,  even    of  those  he  knows 
best  and   has    portrayed:    otherwise    he    runs  the   risk  of 


1  INTRODUCTORY   ESSAY. 

partially  forgetting  them,  and  of  forming  imaginary  ideas 
of  them  while  remembering  them.  No  one  has  a  right 
to  say,  '/  understand  men.'  All  that  one  can  truly  say,  is, 
'7  am  in  a  fair  tvay  to  understand  them.'  " 

Sainte-Beuve  was  never  ready  to  tie  up  his  bundle  of 
opinions  on  any  subject,  and  to  lay  it  away  on  the  shelf, 
labelled  "  complete."  He  believed  in  keeping  all  the 
windows  of  the  mind  open,  and  letting  the  winds  of 
knowledge  blow  through  all  its  apartments.  Nothing, 
therefore,  was  more  offensive  to  him  than  dogmatism, — 
an  assumption  of  infallibility  of  any  kind,  whether  liter- 
ai-y  or  philosophical,  papal  or  protestant.  Opinions,  how- 
ever well-grounded  in  appearance,  he  looked  upon  as 
only  "provisional  statements, —  as  formulas,  convenient 
enough,  but  only  proximately  correct,  for  the  expression 
of  facts  which,  in  their  essence,  or  in  their  absolute  char- 
acter, the  mind  is  incapable  of  grasping."  Beginning 
life,  he  tells  us,  as  a  full-blooded  believer  of  the  most 
advanced  form  of  eighteenth  century  thought, —  passing 
through  the  psychological  and  doctrinaire  school  of  the 
Globe, —  surrendering  himself  next  to  poetical  romanti- 
cism and  the  world  of  Victor  Hugo,  where  he  seemed 
for  a  time  to  be  engulfed, —  coasting  the  shores  of  Saint- 
Simonism  and  the  society  of  Lamennais, —  skirting,  not 
very  joyfully,  the  confines  of  Methodism  and  Calvinism 
(fai  dit  m'efforcer  a  Vint^resser). —  he  never,  he  tells  us, 
in  this  long  circuit,  gave  in  his  full  adhesion  to  any  of 
these  schools;  he  never  gave  up  his  judgment  or  his  will 
(save  momentarily,  and  by  the  effect  of  a  charm,  to  Victor 
Hugo);    he  never  pledged  his  belief;   but  simply  gratified 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  U 

his  curiosity.  It  was  this  curiosity,  he  adds,  the  extreme 
delight  he  always  took  in  discovering  the  relative  truth 
of  everything  and  of  every  system,  that  led  him  on  in 
this  series  of  experiments,  and  it  was  to  him  only  "  a 
long  course  of  moral  physiology." 

In  all  this  we  have  a  revelation,  at  once,  both  of 
Sainte-Beuve's  strengrth  and  of  his  weakness.  "  Rien 
d'absolu,  et  tine  experience  toujours  remise  en  question,'''  * 
is  a  good  motto  for  a  philosopher,  if  not  construed  too 
literally.  There  is  no  surer  mark  of  a  well-balanced 
mind  than  self-distrust, —  a  dislike  for  positivism  in  mat- 
ters where  there  can  be  no  positive  knowledge, —  a  hor- 
ror of  absolute  conclusions,  where  only  partial  data  have 
been  obtained,  and  a  complete  generalization  is  impossi- 
ble. "A  wise  questioning  is,  indeed,"  as  one  has  said, 
"the  half  of  knowledcre":  "a  life  without  cross-examina- 
tion  is  no  life  at  all."  But  "  toiite  perfection,''  as  Vol- 
taire says,  "  es^  j^^'^^  d'une  clefaut";  and  this  philosophic 
caution,  so  commendable  in  moderation,  becomes  in  its 
excess  a  glaring  defect.  Conclusions  have  to  be  drawn 
sometimes,  if  we  would  be  of  any  service  in  the  world; 
and  it  is  better  now  and  then  to  draw  them  illogically, 
or  from  scanty  data,  than  to  have  no  settled  convictions. 
There  is  a  medium  between  Hildebrand  and  Hobbes;  to 
avoid  being  a  pope,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  pyr- 
rhonist.  The  man  who,  like  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby,  wakes 
up  every  morning  with  the  feeling  that  nothing  is 
settled, —  who  like  Lord  Eldon,  cannot  admit  that  two. 
and  two  make  four  without  shedding  tears,  or  expressing 

*  See  the  "  Monday-Chat "  on  Gnizot,  p.  222. 


lii  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

some  doubt  or  scruple, —  may  be  eminently  honest  and 
impartial;  but  he  must  lack  the  most  potent  of  all 
stimuli  to  intellectual  exertion.  Lessing  once  said:  "Did 
the  Almighty,  holding  Truth  in  his  right  hand,  and 
Search-after-Truth  in  his  left,  deign  to  tender  me  the 
one  I  might  prefer,  in  all  humility,  but  without  hesita- 
tion, I  should  request  Search-after-Truth."  But  what  if 
the  Almighty,  with  the  Search-after-Truth,  were  to  give 
Lessing  an  assurance  that  he  would  never  find  Truth, — 
that  it  would  forever  elude  his  search,  being  absolutely 
undiscoverable?  Would  he  then  enjoy  the  pursuit, —  for- 
ever beating  the  bush,  and  never  catching  the  bird? 

Again,  the  man  who  has  a  morbid  aversion  to  conclu- 
sions,—  who  constantly  withholds  his  decision  of  practical 
questions, —  is  in  danger  of  forming  a  habit  of  overlook- 
ing the  chief  value  of  the  facts  which  come  under  his 
notice:  and  he  is  lucky  if  he  does  not  sink  into  a  condi- 
tion like  that  of  David  Hume,  in  which  he  amuses  him- 
self with  his  ideas  with  the  indifference  of  a  sultan  for 
his  slaves,  feeling  confident  of  nothing,  yet  at  the  same 
time  distrusting  his  scepticism,  and  constantly  doubting 
whether  he  ought  to  doubt  of  that  of  which  he  has  doubt- 
ed. One  of  Sainte-Beuve's  keenest  and  kindliest  critics 
has  confessed  that  here  he  was  at  fault.  "A  little  more 
frankness,  a  little  more  trust  by  Sainte-Beuve  in  his  own 
instinctive  convictions,  a  little  more  confidence  in  his 
readers  and  in  mankind  in  general,  a  little  more  will- 
ingness to  take  the  ordinary  risks  of  authorship  in  the 
enunciation    of   opinions,"   the    critic    thinks,    and    thinks 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  liii 

truly,  "  would  have  given  to  his  writings  a  healthier  tone 
and  a  heartier  ring." 

Another  secret  of  Sainte-Beuve's  excellence  as  a  critic, 
and,  indeed,  his  principal  charm,  lies  in  the  psychological 
method  which  he  introduced.  In  adopting  this  method, 
he  was  doubtless  influenced  by  his  physiological  and  other 
scientific  studies.  Though  keenly  sensitive  to  the  beau- 
ties of  style,  he  yet  regarded  a  book  not  so  much  as  a 
product  of  art,  as  the  writer's  mental  oftspring,  as  a  pho- 
tograph of  the  author,  a  portraiture  of  his  mind  and 
character.  The  human  aspect  of  the  Avork  was  of  more 
importance  than  its  cunning  workmanship.  It  was  "  the 
precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,"  its  "purest  efficacy 
and  extract,"  a  kind  of  incarnation  of  the  author's  soul; 
and  hence  it  was  to  be  judged,  not  so  much  with  refer- 
ence to  the  skill  displayed  in  its  execution,  as  to  the  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  life  that  breathed  through  it,  and 
the  creative  ideas  that  gave  it  birth.  Hence,  beyond  any 
other  critic,  Sainte-Beuve  attached  peculiar  importance  to 
biographical  details.  While  he  surpassed  all  his  contem- 
poraries in  the  difficult  art  of  reproducing  the  contents 
of  a  work  of  genius,  giving,  as  he  often  did.  the  quintes- 
sence of  a  bulky  volume  in  twenty  or  thirty  pages,  and 
reporting  the  author's  exact  intellectual  stature,  he  was 
not  content  with  this;  but  ascended  from  the  stream  to 
the  fountain,  detected  the  spirit  of  the  writer  in  the  col- 
oring of  his  work,  analyzed  his  genius  from  its  develop- 
ment in  words,  and  from  the  unconscious  self-revelations 
of  the  author  drew  a  portrait  of  the  man. 

Hence    all    Sainte-Beuve's    criticisms    are    not    merely 


liv  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

studies  in  literature,  but  also  studies  in  character.     There 
were    not    wanting    persons,    however,    who    objected    to 
this    method;    its    author,  they  said,  had   a   good   deal    of 
natural    taste,    but    no    fixed    principles;    "  Saints-Bcuve 
was    a  very  good  judge,   but   he    had    no    code."      In  de- 
murring   to    this    disqualification,    Sainte-Beuve    was    at 
pains  to  set  forth  in  several  "Causeries"  the  theory  upon 
which  he   proceeded.     "  Literature,"  he  says,  "  the  act  of 
^--.yiiterary    j^roduction,    has    never    seemed    to    me    distinct 
from,   or    at  least    separable   from,   the    rest  of  the   man 
and  his  whole  organization.     I  may  relish  a  work,  but  it 
is  difiicult  for  me  to  judge  it  independently  of  a  knowl- 
edge   of  the    man   himself;    I  should   be   inclined  to  say, 
'As  is  the  tree,  so  will  be  the  fruit.'     The  study  of  liter- 
ature thus  leads  me  quite  naturally  to  the  study  of  char- 
acter."    He  then   adds  that  it  is  very  useful  to  begin  at 
the   beginning,  and,  when  possible,  to  take   into  account 
the    author's    birthjilace   and    his    race.     If   we   know  his 
race  thoroughly  in  its  physiological  character  and  histor- 
ical   development,  we    shall    have   a   great    deal    of   light 
thrown    upon    the    secret    and    essential    quality    of    the 
minds  formed  by  it.     But  most  frequently  this  deep  root 
eludes  our   research.     The  great  man  will  be  recognized 
and   recovered,   to   a  certainty,  in   his   parents,  and  espe- 
cially in  his   mother,  his  most  direct  and  certain   parent, 
—  also,   in  his   sisters,   in  his  brothers,   even   in  his  chil- 
dren.    We  discover  in  these  relatives  some  essential  line- 
aments of  character  which,  in  the  great  man  himself,  are 
often  masked  through  extreme  concentration,  or  too  inti- 
mate   union   with   other  qualities.     The    elements    of   the 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Iv 

man  are  exhibited  in  bis  kindred  with  less  concealment 
and  less  disguise;  we  profit  by  an  analysis  which  nature 
alone  has  been  at  the  pains  of  making. 

Take  sisters,  for  example.  "  This  Chateaubriand,  of 
whom  we  were  speaking,"  says  Sainte-Beuve,  ''  had  a  sister 
who  had  a  certain  degree  of  imagination  based  on  stupid- 
ity (betise),  a  combination  which  must  have  approached  to 
downright  extravagance.  Then  he  had  another  sister, 
who  was  altogether  divine  (Lucile,  the  Amelia  of  Ren6). 
She  was  endowed  with  an  exquisite  sensibility,  a  kind  of 
tender  melancholy  imagination  without  anything  to  cor- 
rect or  divert  it;  she  died  by  her  own  hand  in  a  fit  of 
madness.  The  elements  which  he  united  and  associated, 
at  least  in  his  talent,  were  distinctly  and  disproportion- 
ately shared  between  them.'''  Sainte-Beuve  adds  that  he 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  sisters  of  Lamartine,  but  he 
remembered  hearing  Eoyer-Collard  speak  of  them  in  their 
early  youth  as  something  charming  and  melodious,  like 
"  a  nest  of  nicchtin!?ales."  Again,  the  sister  of  Beau- 
marchais  bad  all  his  humor,  wit,  and  sense  of  fun,  which 
she  pushed  to  the  extreme  limit  of  propriety,  when  she 
did  not  go  beyond  it.  "  She  was  the  very  sister  of  Fi- 
garo, the  same  stock,  and  the  same  sap!" 

The  next  essential  point  to  consider  touching  the  great 
author,  after  the  chapter  of  his  studies  and  his  education, 
is  the  first  group  of  friends  and  contemporaries  among 
whom  he  was  cast  at  the  moment  when  his  talent  un- 
folded, when  it  "  filled  out."  so  to  speak,  and  assumed  its 
manhood.  These  early  associations  give  it  an  impress 
which  it  never  loses,  whatever  may  be  its  future  develop- 


Ivi  IXTRODUCTOKY    ESSAY. 

ment.  By  "group"  Sainte-Beuve  means,  not  a  fortuitous 
and  artificial  assemblage  of  able  men,  whose  aims  are  the 
same,  but  a  natural  and  spontaneous  association  of  young 
spirits  and  young  talents,  not  precisely  alike  or  of  the 
same  family,  but  born  under  the  same  influence  and 
launched  upon  the  world  together;  united,  in  spite  of  a 
wide  diversity  of  tastes  and  vocations,  by  the  feeling  of 
having  one  work  in  common  to  accomplish.  Such  was 
the  little  society  of  Boileau,  La  Fontaine,  Eacine,  and 
Moliere,  at  the  opening  of  the  grand  siecle;  such  the  re- 
union of  Chateaubriand,  Fontanes,  and  Joubert,  in  the  ^ 
beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century;  such  the  gi'oup  of 
young  students  and  poets  at  Gottingen,  who,  in  1770, 
published  between  them  the  "Almanach  des  Muses," — 
Burger,  Voss,  Kelty,  Stolberg,  and  others;  and  such  the 
critical  circle  at  Edinburgh,  of  which  Jeffrey  was  the 
chief,  and  from  which  sprang  the  famous  review. 

Sainte-Beuve  emphasizes  with  great  earnestness  the 
importance  of  studying  an  author  in  the  early  stages  of 
his  career,  his  first  flight.  "  There  is  nothing,"  he  says, 
"  like  surprising  '  a  talent '  in  its  first  fire,  its  first  gush, — 
to  breathe  it  in  its  morning  freshness  and  early  bloom 
.  .  .  before  any  acquired  or  artificial  qualities  have  im- 
paired its  originality.  There  is  also  a  second  period,  not 
less  decisive,  which  must  be  marked,  if  we  would  under- 
stand the  entire  man:  it  is  the  period  when  he  begins 
to  deteriorate,  to  decline,  to  go  astray."  Again,  "  it  will 
greatly  help  us  to  judge  of  the  reach  and  elevation  of  a 
writer's  talent,  to  observe  whom  he  chooses  as  his  antago- 


SAIKTE-BEUVE.  Ivii 

nist  and  rival   in  early  life.      The  one  is  the  measure  of 
the  other;  Calpe  is  equal  to  Abyla." 

Finally,  Sainte-Beuve  declares  that  it  is  impossible  to 
try  too  many  ways  to  become  acquainted  with  a  man. 
As  long  as  you  have  not  asked  yourselves  a  certain 
number  of  questions  about  an  author,  and  answered  them 
satisfactorily, —  if  only  for  your  private  benefit  and  sotto 
coce, —  you  cannot  be  sure  of  possessing  him  entirely. 
And  this  is  true,  though  these  questions  may  seem  to  be 
altogether  foreign  to  the  nature  of  his  writings.  For 
example,  what  were  his  religious  views?  How  did  the 
sight  of  nature  aflfeet  him?  What  was  he  in  his  dealings 
with  women,  and  in  his  feelings  about  money?  Was  he 
rich?  Was  he  poor?  What  was  his  regimen?  What  his 
daily  manner  of  life?  Finally,  what  was  his  besetting 
vice  or  weakness?  for  every  man  has  one.  There  is  not 
one  of  these  questions  that  is  without  its  value  in  judg- 
ing an  author  or  his  book,  unless  it  is  a  treatise  on 
mathematics;  and  they  are  especially  important  if  it  is  a 
work  of  pure  literature,  into  which  some  of  the  writer's 
whole  nature  has  entered.  The  ciitic  who  neglects  them 
runs  the  risk  of  inventing  false  beauties  and  being  one- 
sided in  his  admiration, —  a  result  which  is  inevitable 
when  he  judges  merely  as  a  rhetorician. 

All  these  points  are  vividly  put,  striking,  and  suggest- 
ive; and  if  Sainte-Beuve  thus  severely  catechises  himself 
every  time  he  estimates  an  author,  we  can  partially  ac- 
count for  the  surprising  insight  he  displays.  His  method, 
let  us  add,  is  essentially  different  from  that  of  M.  Taine, 
with  which  it  is  liable  to  be  confounded.     It  is  less  phy- 


Iviii  IXTKODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

siological  and  less  fatalistic;  less  physiological,  because 
the  facts  of  climate,  race,  and  temperament  supply  to 
Sainte-Beuve  in  his  study  of  an  author  only  one  of  the 
data  for  the  solution  of  the  problem,  whilst  in  the  judg- 
ment of  M.  Taine  they  contain  the  solution  of  the  entire 
problem;  less  fatalistic,  because  after  giving  the  fullest 
importance  to  these  factors,  Sainte-Beuve  still,  in  his. 
final  solution,  attaches  great  significance  to  "  what  one 
calls  liberty,  which  supposes  in  every  case  a  great  variety 
of  possible  combinations,"  while  M.  Taine  regards  the  in- 
dividual as  resulting  inevitably  from  all  the  elements  in 
question,  united  as  in  a  chemical  combination.  But  even 
Sainte-Beuve's  method,  immeasurably  superior  as  it  is  to 
the  old,  conventional  modes  of  criticism,  has  its  objections. 
V  ;What  right,  it  may  be  asked,  have  we,  in  estimating  a 
^book,  to  go  beyond  the  book  itself, —  to  travel  "out  of  the 
record,"  and  to  consider  the  character  of  the  writer, — 
still  more  that  of  his  parents,  grandparents,  uncles,  aunts, 
and  cousins'?  Are  we  obliged  to  find  melodious  versifica- 
tion in  John  Smith's  poem,  because  his  sisters  sang  like 
nightingales;  or  wit  in  Peter  Snooks's  comedy,  because 
he  had  a  witty  sister?  Or,  conversely,  shall  we  say  that 
an  author  has  no  genius  because  his  mother  or  great- 
grandmother  was  a  fool?  Does  it  help  me  to  estimate 
Emerson's  lofty  platonism  or  the  moonlight  chastity  of 
his  style,  to  know  that  he  is  descended  from  Bai'on 
Bulkeley,  down  through  six  hundred  years,  and  that  his 
ancestors  for  two  centuries  were  ministers  of  the  gospel? 
What  matters  it,  if  a  book  charms,  inspires,  or  in- 
structs us,   whether  the  author  smoked    or  drank  stimu- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ux 

lants;  or  borrowed  money,  or  forgot  to  pay  his  tailor 
and  his  washerwoman;  whether  he  quarrelled  with  his 
wife,  like  Milton,  Coleridge,  and  Shelley, —  separated  from 
his  wife,  like  Landor,  Bolingbroke,  and  Bulwer, —  was 
divorced  from  his  wife,  like  Byron, —  or,  like  Pope,  Hume, 
Gibbon,  Lamb,  and  Macaulay,  kept  out  of  the  matrimo- 
nial noose  altogether?  To  know  the  vices  and  weaknesses 
of  a  great  writer,  his  oddities  and  eccentricities,  and  man- 
ner of  life;  to  know  that  Aristotle  was  fond  of  finger- 
rings;  that  Julius  Caesar  woi'e  a  laurel- wreath  to  hide  his 
baldness;  that  Petrarch  pinched  his  feet  till  he  crippled 
them;  that  Dryden  continually  ejaculated  "Egad!"  and 
took  huge  pinches  of  snuff;  that  Pope  had  a  voracious  ap- 
petite for  stewed  lampreys,  Dr.  Parr  for  hot  lobsters  with 
shrimp  sauce,  and  Johnson  for  a  leg  of  mutton,  or  for  a 
veal  pie  with  plums;  that  Shelley  was  a  vegetarian,  and 
that  Handel  ate  enormously,  and  at  tavern  always  ordered 
dinner  for  three:  that  Goldsmith  was  vain  and  foppish, 
and  blazed  forth  in  suits  of  scarlet,  sky-blue  satin,  or 
green  and  gold;  that  Boswell's  scrofulous  hei'o  had  fits 
of  rage  and  of  penitence,  of  gloom  and  laughter, —  that  he 
pronounced  the  letter  ?(  like  oo^  saying,  as  he  squeezed  the 
lemon-juice  into  the  bowl,  "Who's  for  poonch?'' — that  he 
always  stood  in  the  rain  to  do  penance  for  disobedience  to 
his  father,  and  had  a  trick  of  touching  the  door-posts  as 
he  walked,  and  of  picking  up  and  treasuring  pieces  of 
orange-peel;  that  BufFon  always  wrote  in  ruffles,  with  his 
hair  in  curls  and  scented,  and  Richardson  in  a  laced 
suit;  that  Dr.  Robert  Hamilton,  whose  work  upon  finance 
fell  like  a  bombshell  upon  Parliament,  would  run  against 


Ix  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

a  cow  and  beg  her  pardon,  or  pull  off  bis  bat  to  bis  own 
wife  in  tbe  streets,  and  apologize  for  not  baving  the 
pleasure  of  her  acquaintance;  that  Lord  Erskine  always 
drew  on  bis  bright  yellow  gloves  before  be  rose  to  speak; 
that  Byron  shaved  his  brow  to  make  it  look  higher,  and 
found  his  inspiration  in  green  tea,  tobacco,  and  semi- 
starvation;  that  Scott  bad  a  Northumbrian  burr  in  his 
speech;  that  Charles  Lamb  stammered  out  bis  wit  and 
wisdom,  took  too  much  "  egg-flip  hot,"  and  found  in 
tobacco  his  "evening  comfort  and  his  morning  curse"; 
that  Schiller  could  compose  only  in  a  room  filled  with 
the  scent  of  rotten  apples, —  that  within  the  Chateau- 
briand of  Atala  there  was  an  obscene  Chateaubriand  that 
indulged  in  the  coarsest  talk, —  to  know  all  these  petty 
details  is  pleasant,  and  gratifies  a  natural  curiosity;  they 
give  picturesqueness  and  charm  to  biography;  they  may 
help  occasionally  to  explain  the  growth  and  prominence 
of  some  idiosyncrasy,  or  some  characteristic  sentiment  or 
idea;  but  bow  a  knowledge  of  them  is  necessary  to  a 
just  estimate  of  the  literary  productions  of  these  authors, 
it  is  hard  to  see.  In  choosing  a  public  officer,  a  man  to 
fill  a  responsible  position,  it  is  right  to  demand  guaran- 
tees of  character;  but  what  has  Art  to  do  with  guaran- 
tees? Every  work  is  its  own  warranty;  it  carries  with 
it  its  raison  d'etre  in  its  very  qualities.  The  natural  or- 
der, it  seems  to  us,  is  to  try  a  man  by  bis  works,  and 
not  the  works  by  tbe  man;  and  for  such  a  trial  the  best 
qualification  is  a  naturally  delicate  taste,  improved  by  the 
study  of  the   best  models,  a  knowledge  of  the   fixed  can- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixi 

ons  of  judgment  that  have  stood  the  test  of  time,  and  a 
judicial  impartiality. 

Again,  may  we  not  attach  too  much  importance  to  ex- 
ternal influences,  however  interesting?  It  is  true  that,  as 
the  oak  is  identical  with  the  acorn  from  which  it  sprang, 
and  as  in  the  egg  the  embryologist  may  detect  the 
pi'ophecy  and  type  of  the  rooster  or  hen,  so  every  man 
is,  to  some  extent,  what  his  ancestors  have  made  him. 
We  are  all  our  fathers'  sons.  But  is  this  all?  A  hu- 
man being  is  something  else  than  a  chemical  compound; 
and  in  the  man  of  genius,  however  rigidly  you  may  an- 
alyze him,  there  will  always  be  a  final  I'esiduum, —  a 
mysterious  something," — an  impalpable  element,  which 
will  defy  your  blowpipes  and  retorts,  and  elude  every 
device  of  your  laboratory.  It  is  precisely  of  this  most 
important  and  essential  element,  the  peculiar  gift  or  turn 
that  causes  one  brother  to  be  radically  unlike  another, — 
which  causes  a  man  to  be  "  Peter  Corneille  instead  of 
Thomas,  Gabriel  de  Mirabeau  instead  of  Mirabeau  Ton- 
neau," — that  the  facts  of  race,  famih^  education,  and 
morals,  give  us  no  account.  It  has  been  affirmed  that, 
had  Ave  intellect  enough,  we  could  infer  a  man  com- 
pletely from  the  sound  of  his  voice  or  from  a  piece  of 
his  skin;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  true,  that  an  archangel 
could  construct  a  man  completely,  and  tell  all  that  he  is 
capable  of,  from  a  paring  of  his  nail.  The  quality  and 
size  of  the  paring  would  disclose  more  or  less  the  nature 
of  the  tissue  with  which  it  was  connected, —  this,  again, 
would  lead  to  still  further  revelations,  and  so  on  until 
the  whole  body  was  reconstructed,  which  body  could  be 


Ixii  INTKODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

associated  onl}^  with  such  and  such  intellectual  and  moral 
manifestations".     But  even  an  archangel  would  be  puzzled 
to  construct  a  work  of  pui'e  imagination, —  an  "Iliad"  or 
an  "^neid," — from  a  knowledge  of  the  life,  character,  and 
ancestral  antecedents  of  the  author.     Many  of  the  events 
in  a  man's   life    make   no   more  impression  on  him  than 
x-ain-drops  on  an  eagle's  wings.      He  rushes  through  the 
world,  and  is  no  more  colored  by  them  than  "  the  arrowy 
Rhone "  is  said  to  be  changed  in  its  passage  through  the 
lake  of  Geneva.     Indeed,  we  need    make   no   other  criti- 
cism on   Sainte-Beuve's  method  than  that  which  he  him- 
self has  declared  will   be  provoked  by  the  method  of  M. 
Taine    in    his    "  English    Literature."     In    that    work    M. 
Taine    has    dwelt  with    great   emphasis   on   the    profound 
differences  wrought  in  the   constitution   of  minds,  in  the 
form  and  direction  of  talents,  by  races,  positions,  and  pe- 
riods;   but  "something   still    eludes    him,   the    most  vital 
part  of  man  eludes  him,  which  is  the  reason  why  out  of 
twenty    men,    or   a    hundred,    or   a   thousand,    apparently 
subject  to   almost    the   same    intrinsic    or  external  condi- 
tions, not  one  resembles  the  other,  and  that  there  is  one 
among  them  all  who  excels  through   originality.      In  fine, 
he  has   not   reached  the   spark   of  genius   in   its   essence, 
and  he  does  not  display  it  to  us  in  his  analysis.     He  has 
merely    explained    and    enumerated    bit   by   bit,    fibre    by 
fibre,  cell  by  cell,  the  stuff,  the  organism,  the  parenchy- 
ma (as  you  might  call   it),  wherein  this  soul,  this  spark, 
once  it  has  entered   in,  disports,  changes  freely  (or,  as  it 
were  freely),  and  triumphs." 

Again,  if  a  writer's  book  is  to  be  judged  by  the  light 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  1 


XlU 


of  his  personal  character,  why  not  apply  the  sam6  rule  to 
sculpture,  painting,  and  even  architecture  and  landscape 
gardeninor '?  Must  we  know  what  Taine  calls  "the  race, 
the  milieu,  and  the  moment "  of  Rai^hael  before  we  can 
properly  estimate  the  Sistine  Madonna?  Finally,  if 
Sainte-Beuve's  theory  be  true,  we  cannot  weigh  the 
greatest  authors,  because  their  lives  and  ancestry  are 
hidden  by  an  impenetrable  veil.  How  much  do  we  know 
of  Homer  (if  he  is  not  a  myth),  or  of  the  Greek  tragic 
poets?  —  how  much  of  Virgil,  Dante,  Chaucer,  or  Shaks- 
peare?  All  the  known  facts  concerning  the  author  of 
"Hamlet"  are  a  few  obtained  from  the  most  frigid  of 
sources,  legal  documents,  and  his  very  existence  is  plau- 
sibly disputed.  When  these  men  wrote,  those  "  new  ter- 
rors of  death,"  the  "  lues  Boswelliana "  and  the  inter- 
viewer, were  unknown.  What  more  remarkable  book  of 
its  class,  or  dearer  to  the  bibliopole,  can  be  named  than 
"The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy"?  Yet  of  that  "gulf  of 
learning,"  Burton,  the  author,  from  whom  our  learned 
Thebans  quietly  crib  their  erudition,  and  Sterne  plagiar- 
ized his  denunciation  of  plagiarism,  we  know  only  that 
he  was  an  indefatigable  Oxford  student,  and  that  he  fore- 
told his  own  decease, —  which  happened  so  exactly  at  the 
day  he  predicted,  that  some  of  the  students  said  that 
"  rather  than  that  there  should  be  a  mistake  in  the  cal- 
culation, he  sent  his  soul  up  to  heaven  through  a  slip 
about  his  neck."  The  latest  biographer  of  Dryden  tells 
us  that  the  names  and  dates  and  order  of  his  publica- 
tions make  a  large  portion  of  his  biography.  Yet  Dry- 
den   was    Poet-Laureate,    and    Historiographer-Royal;    he 


Ixiv  INTRODUCTOKY    ESSAY. 

was  a  fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  and  the  literary  mon- 
arch of  the  Restoration;  and  when  he  died  he  had  a 
splendid  funeral,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Finally,  a  man  of  genius,  when  he  writes  a  book,  and 
"all  the  god  comes  rushing  on  his  soul,"  is  in  an  abnor- 
mal state ;  and  hence  the  lives  of  men-of-letters  have  often 
been  in  fflarinor  contrast  to  their  writings.  Montaicrne 
tells  us  that  he  always  observed  supercelestial  opinions  to 
be  accompanied  with  subterranean  morals;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  most  latitudinarian  professors  of  epicureanism 
have  often  lived  like  anchorites  or  trappists.  Some  of  the 
best  sea-songs  have  been  written  by  men  who  never  snuffed 
a  salt-water  breeze;  stirring  war-songs  have  been  composed 
by  timid  men  and  women  who  would  have  shrieked  at 
sight  of  a  mouse;  and  hymns  steeped  in  the  veiy  spirit 
of  devotion  have  been  written  by  men  of  doubtful  mo- 
rality, who  were  never  less  at  home  than  in  a  christian 
church.  Charles  Lamb  was  ready  to  wager  that  Milton's 
morning-hymn  in  paradise  was  penned  at  midnight;  and 
we  know  positively  that  Thomson,  who  sang  the  praises 
of  early  rising  in  the  "Seasons,"  used  to  lie  abed  till 
noon.  Dr.  Young,  the  author  of  the  "'  Night  Thoughts," 
whose  Parnassus  was  a  churchyard,  who  drank  of  the 
river  Styx  instead  of  Hippocrene,  and  whose  Pegasus  was 
the  Pale  Horse  in  Revelations,  was  a  pleasure-hunter,  an 
office-seeker,  and  a  court-sycophant.  Sir  Richard  Steele 
could  discourse  eloquently  on  temperance, —  when  he  was 
not  drunk;  Woodworth,  in  his  "Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  sang 
the  praises  of  cold  water  under  the  inspiration  of  brandy. 
Dr.  Johnson,  who  wrote  so  well  on  politeness,  interrupted 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixv 

his  opponents  with  "You  lie,  sir!"  "You  are  a  vile  Whig, 
sir!"  Burns  was  a  compound  of  "dirt  and  deity";  Rous- 
seau, who  was  always  filling  people's  eyes  with  tears,  be- 
trayed and  slandered  all  his  benefactors  in  turn,  and  sent 
his  children  to  the  Foundlings'  Hospital.  Who  has  foi*- 
gotten  Byron's  reply  to  the  unsophisticated  gentleman  who 
congratulated  him  on  the  delight  he  must  have  taken  in 
a  visit  to  Ithaca?  "You  quite  mistake  me,  sir;  I  have  no 
poetical  humbug  about  rne.  .  .  .  Ideas  of  that  sort  are 
confined  to  rhymed  When  Moore  proposed  to  Scott  to  go 
and  see  Melrose  Abbey,  as  Sir  Walter  had  described  it,  by 
moonlight,  "Pooh,  pooh,"  said  Scott,  "you  don't  suppose 
I  ever  saw  it  by  moonlight ! " 

The  truth  is,  the  pedigree  of  an  author  and  the  details 
of  his  life  and  character  are  points  of  interest  about  which 
curiosity  never  tires  of  lingering,  and  they  may  occasion- 
ally throw  light  on  vexed  passages  in  his  writings;  but 
to  say  that  without  these  particulars  we  cannot  properly 
estimate  his  works,  is  too  extravagant  a  statement  to  go 
unchallenged.  As  well  might  it  be  said  that  we  cannot 
decide  upon  the  bouquet  of  a  wine  without  knowing  all 
the  particulars  of  its  vintage,  or  pronounce  upon  the 
beauty  and  perfume  of  a  rose,  without  analyzing  the  soil 
whence  it  sprang,  and  knowing  all  its  surroundings  and 
all  the  processes  of  its  growth.  There  is  a  literary  beauty 
which  is  impersonal,  distinct  from  the  author  and  his 
organization;  and,  we  believe,  therefore,  that  Wordsworth, 
narrow  as  was  his  critical  range  in  general,  was  ricrht 
when  he  demurred  to  the  intrusion  of  biographic  details 
into   literary  criticism,  and    maintained   that   a   poem   or 


Ixvi  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

other  work  of  art  should  be  judged  by  its  own  merits  as 
a  kind  of  existence  that  is  separate  from  the  mind  that 
originated  it,  and  independently  of  the  author's  character 
or  principles  as  a  man.  But,  whatever  we  may  think 
of  Sainte-Beuve's  theories,  it  is  certain  that  to  them  is 
largely  due  the  subtle  charm  of  his  criticisms;  for  had 
his  method  been  different,  he  would  not  have  given  us 
those  biographic  details  which  are  so  prized  by  his  readers. 
"^  little  of  all,  and  nothing  of  the  ivhole,  after  the  French 
manner'';  this,  which  was  Montaigne's  motto,  he  tells  us 
is  also  the  motto  of  French  criticism,  and  it  seems  to 
have  been  his  own  when  he  wrote  his  essays, —  essays 
which  Taine  has  happily  compared  to  those  "  compounded 
and  precious  perfumes  where  twenty  choice  essences  are 
inhaled  at  once,  and  mollified  by  their  mutual  harmony." 
The  true  way  to  regard  the  Causeries  du  Liindi  is  as 
studies  in  literary  biography;  and,  as  such,  they  have  no 
rival.  They  are,  indeed,  "  miniatures  of  the  most  exquisite 
workmanship,"  in  which  every  feature  and  every  expres- 
sion of  the  subject  are  caught  and  painted  to  the  life. 
Many  of  them  remind  us  of  those  pen-and-ink  sketches 
of  Leech,  in  which  the  whole  character  of  a  man  is  con- 
densed in  a  single  stroke  of  the  pencil. 

Their  importance  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  France 
is  the  only  country  in  which  at  this  day  literary  criticism 
of  the  highest  order  flourishes.  In  France  only,  among 
living  nations,  is  literature  pursued  as  an  art;  nowhere 
else  is  literary  work  performed  with  such  conscientious- 
ness, or  with  so  constant  a  reference  to  the  loftiest  ideals; 
for   nowhere   else  can  be  found  a  public  with  taste  and 


SAIKTE-BEUVE.  Ixvii 

sympath}'  sufficient  to  support  an  artist  by  appreciation. 
The  very  excellence  of  French  criticism,  as  of  French  lit- 
erature generally,  has  caused  it  in  some  quarters  to  be 
underrated.  Wherever  there  is  superlative  excellence  in 
the  embodiment  of  the  beautiful,  wherever  there  is  per- 
fection in  the  forms,  the  substantial  and  less  obvious 
merits  of  a  work  are  almost  sure  to  be  overlooked.  The 
French,  who,  if  not  the  most  original,  are  certainly  the 
acutest  and  most  logical  thinkers  in  the  world,  are  fre- 
quently considered  frivolous  and  shallow,  simply  because 
they  excel  all  other  nations  in  the  difficult  art  of  giving 
literartj  interest  to  philosophy;  while  on  the  other  hand, 
the  ponderous  Germans,  who,  living  in  clouds  of  smoke, 
have  a  positive  genius  for  making  the  obscure  obscurer, 
are  thought  to  be  fearfully  original  because  they  are  so 
fearfully  chaotic  and  clumsy.  But  we  have  yet  to  learn 
that  lead  is  priceless  because  it  is  weighty,  or  that  gold 
is  valueless  because  it  glitters.  The  Damascus  blade  is 
none  the  less  keen  because  it  is  polished,  nor  is  the  Co- 
rinthian column  less  strong  because  its  shaft  is  fluted  and 
its  capital  carved. 

Great  Britain  has  produced  many  men  with  high  in- 
tellectual qualifications  for  criticism;  but  they  have  been 
nearly  all  self-imprisoned,  one-sided,  destitute  of  catholic- 
ity: and,  instead  of  holding  the  scales  evenly,  they  have 
too  often  suffered  their  prejudices,  national,  political,  and 
religious,  to  affect  the  balance.  We  cannot  forget  that 
it  was  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  an  Englishman,  who  said  that 
"  critics  are  like  the  brushers  of  noblemen's  clothes  " ;  and 
that  it  was  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  most  charitable  of  men, 


Ixviii  IXTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

who,  living  at  the  critical  capital  of  Britain,  said  that,  if 
great  authors  are  the  pillars  of  literature,  critics  are  the 
caterpillars.  We  cannot  forget  that  "  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine" sneered  at  Tennyson  as  "a  cockney  poet";  that  the 
"Quarterly  Review"  called  Hazlitt  a  blockhead,  killed 
poor  Keats,  and  scoffed  at  the  author  of  Jane  Eyre;  that 
the  ••  Edinburgh "  hooted  at  Byron,  and  sealed  up  the 
living  waters  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  from  his  country- 
men for  twenty  y.ears.  All  the  critics  of  that  genera- 
tion,—  Jeffrey,  Gilford,  Wilson,  Lockhart,  and  Croker, — 
were  simply  intellectual  gladiators,  engaged  to  fight  to 
the  death  for  this  or  that  set  of  doctrines.  "As,  with  a 
change  of  a  word,  Rivarol  said  of  Mirabeau,  '  They  would 
do  anything  for  party,  even  a  good  action.' "  Dr.  John- 
son, their  predecessor,  had  some  solid  qualities  as  a  critic, 
but  he  lacked  comprehensiveness  and  catholicity,  and, 
above  all,  that  subtle  instinct  which  detects  minute  beau- 
ties,—  the  delicate  taste  which  discovers  the  most  secret 
flavors  of  excellence.  His  mental  eyesight  was  like  his 
bodily;  he  saw  broad  outlines,  but  not  minute  details. 
He  weighs  Cowley,  Dryden  and  Pope  accurately;  but  the 
moment  he  enters  the  enchanted  ground  of  romantic  po- 
etry, he  is  like  a  deaf  man  seated  at  a  SA^mphony  of 
Beethoven.  Again,  Johnson  was  too  moody,  too  preju- 
diced, and  too  positive,  to  be  a  good  critic. 

Macaulay  has  some  of  the  finest  qualities  of  a  great 
reviewer;  but  his  intense  prejudices,  his  dogmatism,  his 
utilitarianism,  and  contempt  for  high  philosophy  and  re- 
ligion,—  to  say  nothing  of  his  mannerism,  his  perpetual 
brilliancy  of  style,  his  exaggeration,  and  fondness  for  epi- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixix 

gram  and  paradox, —  suffice  alone  to  disqualify  him  for 
sitting  on  the  throne  of  criticism.  He  sees  everything, 
not  in  the  "dry  light"  of  truth,  but  distorted  and  re- 
fracted through  a  false  medium  of  passions  and  preju- 
dices; and  lience  his  history  is  only  a  big,  brilliant  Whig 
pamphlet.  To  him  criticism  is  only  a  tribunal  before 
which  men  are  brought  to  be  decisively  tried  by  one  or 
two  inflexible  tests,  and  then  sent  to  join  the  sheep  on 
the  one  hand,  or  the  goats  on  the  other.  Albany  Fon- 
blanque  said  of  him  truly  that  "  he  is  a  great  master  of 
color  who  cannot  draw.  He  fastens  upon  a  feature,  and 
gives  it  as  a  man."  It  is  true  that  Macaulay  did  not 
stoop  to  any  baseness.  He  never  threw  literary  vitriol. 
But  he  could  do  what  was  nearly  as  bad;  he  could,  to 
show  his  own  thews,  fall  upon  a  poor  fifth-rate  poet,  and 
beat  him  without  mercy.  Who  can  forget  how  he  jumped 
upon  "  Satan "  Montgomery,  and  pounded  and  kicked  him 
till  there  was  not  a  whole  bone  in  his  body?  Who  that 
has  read  his  late  biography,  can  believe  that  he  could 
have  impartially  reviewed  a  book  written  by  one  of  those 
persons  whom  he  always  sneeringly  terms  "Yankees"? 
Hallam  has  a  more  judicial  mind:  he  means  to  be  se- 
verely impartial;  but,  unfortunately,  the  discriminating 
faculty  in  his  mind  was  developed  disproportionately  to 
the  faculty  of  admiration.  He  prefers  works  artistically 
correct,  fashioned  by  square,  rule,  and  compass,  to  those 
that  manifest  a  vigorous  and  iri-egular  originality.  The 
rugged,  gnarled  oak,  with  the  grotesque  contortions  of  its 
branches,  delights  him  less  than  the  regularity  of  the 
clipped    and   trimmed    trees    of   Versailles.     Hence,  while 


Ixx  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

he  has  done  heaped  justice  to  the  cold,  classic  literatures 
of  Europe,  he  has  "  damned  with  faint  praise "  the  bold, 
impassioned  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  period  in  England. 
Matthew  Arnold  has  fine  critical  abilities;  but  he  has 
rung  the  changes  upon  "sweetness  and  light"  till  they 
have  become  a  cant;  and  he  is  so  full  of  crotchets,  biases, 
and  pet  prejudices,  not  to  say  dandyisms  and  affectations, 
that  we  sometimes  prefer  the  Philistines. 

Sainte-Beuve  was  no  such  "  hired  master  of  tongue- 
fence,"  no  such  dispenser  of  praise  or  blame,  as  any  of 
these  we  have  described.  The  least  sentimental,  he  was 
also  the  least  cynical  of  writers;  though  he  bad  an 
eagle's  eye  for  faults,  yet  he  was  essentially  a  loving 
critic.  Especially  did  he  delight  in  cheering  on  the 
younger  members  of  the  literary  guild,  and  in  rescuing 
neglected  authors  from  oblivion.  In  summing  up  his 
qualities,  we  know  not  which  most  to  admire,  his  genial- 
ity, vivacity,  and  catholicity  of  nature,  his  Parisian  deli- 
cacy and  finesse,  his  profound  knowledge  of  men  and 
books,  or  that  calm,  penetrating  wisdom, —  that  uncom- 
mon common-sense, —  which  is  so  conspicuous  in  all 
he  wrote.  Two  crowning  qualities  he  had  in  a  degree 
rarely  seen  in  a  critic, —  insight  and  disinterestedness;  a 
faculty  of  penetrating  into  the  secrets  of  the  most  oppo- 
site natures,  and  a  power  of  detecting  and  appreciating 
whatever  is  good  in  the  most  opposite  schools.  Though 
less  enthusiastic  than  many  critics  of  inferior  perspicac- 
ity, he  was  never  chary  or  niggard  of  deserved  praise; 
and  the  conscientiousness  with  which  he  credits  the  au- 
thors whom  he  dissects,  and  whose  weaknesses  he  exposes, 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixxi 

with  every  particle  of  excellence  that  can  be  discovered 
in  their  writings,  is  one  of  his  most  salient  qualities. 
Belonging,  except  in  youth,  to  no  Mutual  Admiration 
Society, —  to  none  of  those  close  corporations  of  literary 
Ishmaelites  that  applaud  all  within  and  denounce  all 
without  the  pale, —  he  weighed  all  authors  fairly  in  his 
literary  scales,  whatever  their  nationality,  sect,  or  party; 
and  we  feel  that  the  estimates  he  has  placed  upon  them 
mark,  with  rare  exceptions,  their  just  value.  In  short,  as 
Wistanley  says  of  Matthew  Paris,  in  speaking  of  his  his- 
tory, we  may  say  of  Sainte-Beuve:  ''Though  he  had  sharp 
nails,  he  had  clean  hands."  This  very  impartiality  was 
to  some  writers  whom  he  criticised  his  most  offensive 
quality;  justice  was  the  one  thing  they  had  most  reason 
to  dread;  and  hence  he  tells  us  that  in  his  hm<y  career 
he  had  irritated  and  envenomed  more  people  by  his 
praise  than  by  his  blame. 

Sainte-Beuve  is  not  properly  what  one  would  call  an 
epigrammatic  writer;  he  has  fewer  striking  passages  that 
can  be  torn  from  their  context  without  injui'v.  than  many 
writers  of  less  genius;  and  yet  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  cull  out  from  his  fifty  or  luore  volumes  a  great  num- 
ber of  pithy  and  pointed  sayings, —  flowers  enough  to  form 
a  respectable  anthology.  Even  his  happiest  aphorisms  are 
not  usuallv  of  the  kind  that  startle  and  delight  at  the 
first  reading;  they  are  quiet  and  suggestive,  disclosing 
moi'e  and  more  meaning  in  proportion  as  they  are  i)on- 
dered;  e.g.,  '"One  has  always  the  voice  of  his  mind." — 
"One  is  always  of  his  time."" — "He  is  dying  of  words 
suppressed  {rentrees),  and  not  heard.'" — "  It  is  always  one's 


Ixxii  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

self  that  one  loves,  even  in  what  one  admires." — "The 
first  and  almost  the  only  question  which  one  always  has 
to  ask,  in  speaking  of  a  woman,  is:  'Has  she  loved,  and 
how  has  she  loved?'" — "Malesherbes  is  great  enough,  pro- 
vided one  does  not  present  him  to  us  drape.  ...  He  had 
believed  in  the  Promised  Land  before  the  passage  of  the 
Red  Sea." — The  history  of  conversation,  like  that  of  all 
which  is  essentially  relative  and  transitory,  and  dependent 
upon  the  veiy  impressions  of  the  time,  appears  to  me  im- 
possible. .  .  .  Even  if  the  things  said  could  be  conveyed 
in  writing,  in  letters,  most  of  them  would  be  congealed  in 
the  process,  for  paper  cannot  smile.  Nothing  more  faith- 
fully reflects  the  taste  of  an  age  than  its  prevalent  style 
of  conversation.  The  serious  conversation  of  yesterday 
would  seem  a  little  timid,  or  superficial,  or  insipid,  to- 
morrow, were  echo  to  report  it  fully.  The  refined  and 
polished  conversation  of  one  period  will  appear  heavy  to 
another.  ...  It  has  been  said  of  Collections  of  Thoughts 
that  they  have  the  inconvenience  of  apjjearing  common- 
place, when  they  are  not  pretentious;  the  same  things, 
when  said,  made  a  different  impression.  The  smile  and 
accent  gave  them  currency;  but,  fixed  upon  paper,  they 
are  quite  another  thing.  Paper  is  brutish  {bete).'" — "  If 
it  be  true  that  there  are  some  books  which  cultivated 
and  tender  unoccupied  hearts  love  to  re-read  once  a  year, 
—  love  to  have  flower  periodically  in  the  memory,  like 
the  lilacs  and  the  hawthorn, — Edouard*  is  one  of  them." 
How  happily  has  Sainte-Beuve  characterized  Pope,  that 
Ulcus  cHrra  in  rorpore  ciirvo.  to  whom  Taine  has  done  such 

injustice: 

*  By  Mjidainc  dc  Duraa. 


SAINTE-BEU\  E.  ]xx 


111 


' '  Pope  did  not  write  with  his  muscles ;  he  merely  made  use  of 
his  mind.  ...  If  we  are  fair  toward  the  ex-tinker  Bunyan,  who, 
in  his  fanatical  dreams,  has  given  token  of  strength  and  of  im- 
agination, let  us  not,  on  the  other  hand,  crush  Pope,  that  agree- 
able and  clever  creature,  that  quintessence  of  soul,  that  drop  of 
dear  spirit  in  cotton  wool.  Do  not  treat  him  roughly,  and  when 
taking  him  by  the  hand,  to  seat  him  in  our  medical  and  quasi- 
anatomical  arm-chair,  let  us  be  careful  (as  if  he  still  lived)  not  to 
make  him  scream.  ...  It  is  true  he  was  precocious:  is  that  a 
crime?  ...  If  such  a  thing  as  the  literary  temperament  exist,  it 
never  was  revealed  in  a  more  characteristic  and  more  distinctly 
defined  manner  than  in  the  case  of  Pope.  Generally  we  become 
classical  by  the  fact  and  discipline  of  education:  he  was  so  by 
vocation,  so  to  speak,  and  by  a  natural  originality." 

What  can  be  more  just  -than  the  following  remarks 
upon  Pope's  irritability? — "One  does  not  appreciate  the 
beautiful  to  such  a  degree  of  intensity  and  delicacy,  with- 
out being  terribly  shocked  at  the  bad  and  the  ugly.  Ex- 
quisite enjoyment  must  be  paid  for.  When  one's  mind  is 
so  open  and  so  susceptible  to  beauties,  even  to  the  extent 
of  shedding  tears  about  them  as  Pope  did,  it  is  equally 
sensitive  to  defects,  even  to  the  point  of  being  nettled 
and  irritated  at  them.  He  who  most  keenly  enjoys  the 
perfume  of  the  rose  will  be  the  first  to  be  disgusted  with 
bad  odors.  Thus  no  one,  perhaps,  has  been  conscious  of 
literary  stupidity,  and  suffered  from  it  in  so  high  a  de- 
gree, as  Pope." 

Few  English  critics  have    analyzed  and   described   the 

genius  of  Gibbon,  the  historian,  so  felicitously  in  as  few 

sentences,  as  it  is  characterized  in  the  following  passages: 

"Culture,  coherence,  order,  method;  a  fine,  cold,  acute,  con- 
stantly exercised  and  shai-pened  intelligence;  tempered,  lastmg 
affections;   in  other  respects,   the   sacred  spai'k  being  wanting,  a 


IXXIV  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

thunder-clap  being  never  heard;  these  are  the  traits  under  which 
Gibbon  presents  himself  to  us  at  all  times,  and  from  his  youth  up. 
.  .  .  Gibbon  does  not  give  forth  a  perfect  light;  he  stops  on  this 
side  of  the  summit  where  perchance  it  shines.  He  excels  in  ana- 
l3'zing  and  deducing  the  complicated  parts  of  a  subject;  but  he 
never  collects  them  in  a  startling  point  of  view  and  with  an  out- 
burst of  genius.  He  is  more  intelligent  than  elevated.  Faithful 
to  his  humor,  even  in  the  processes  of  his  mind,  he  equalizes  all 
things  too  much.  Shall  I  indulge  in  a  pleasantly  he  himself  indi- 
cates? The  gout,  when  he  has  it,  never  attacks  him  by  fits,  and 
it  treats  him  in  nearly  the  same  way  as  it  did  Fontenelle,  fol- 
lowing a  slow  and  regular  course;  in  the  same  way,  his  History 
uniformly  marches  with  equal  pace,  without  fits  and  starts,  and 
without  fury.  If  a  great  revolution  were  anywhere  to  occur  in 
the  human  mind,  he  would  not  feel  it;  he  would  not  announce  it 
by  lighting  a  beacon  on  the  top  of  his  tower,  or  by  ringing  the 
silver  bell.  This  is  the  historical  complaint  which  must  be  brought 
against  liis  exposition  of  Christianity.  ...  In  the  portraits  of 
christians,  even  the  greatest  of  those  times.  Gibbon  contents  him- 
self with  being  always  vague;  he  does  not  exhibit  them  in  their 
best  parts,  and,  as  a  learned  ecclesiastic  of  our  day  has  remarked, 
*his  work  swarms  with  equivocal  portraits.'" 

Every  reader  of  Taine,  especially  of  his  "English  Lit- 
erature," will  recognize  the  acuteness  and  justness  of  the 
following  criticism  of  his  style:  "In  fact,  he  likes  force 
even  in  grace;  he  does  not  hate  superabundance  and  ex- 
cess. .  .  .  He  hows  down,  or  he  raises  up,  acx-ording  to 
his  feelings;  he  will  despise  Butler,  for  his  bepraised  Hii- 
dlbnis;  he  will  magnify  Bunyan,  the  fanatic,  for  his  Pil- 
(jfiiii'.i  Progress.  When  I  say  magnifies  him.  I  go  too  far; 
lie  describes  him  and  his  work,  hut  describes  them  in  such 
a  way  that  his  words  set  the  picture  before  you  so  as  to 
make  the  impression  reach  the  quick  and  even  the  skin. 
...  In  his  descriptions  or  picturesque   analyses,  his  con- 


SAINTE-BEUYE.  Ixxv 

cise,  rapid  >;tyle,  advancing  in  series,  in  rows  and  strings 
of  epithets,  in  thick  and  reiterated  strokes,  in  sentences, 
and,  as  it  were,  in  short,  sharp  recurring  lines,  has  made  a 
critic  of  the  old  school  say  that  he  seemed  to  hear  rough 
and  thick  hail  falling  and  rattling  on  the  roofs: 

'Turn  multa  in  tectis  crepitans  saht  horrida  grando.' 

This  style  produces  in  the  long  run  a  certain  and  inevi- 
table impression  on  the  mind,  which  at  times  alFects  the 
nerves.  Here,  the  man  of  science  and  of  vigor  has  to 
take  care  lest  he  cause  some  fatigue  to  the  man  of  taste." 
Among  the  interesting  essays  in  the  third  volume  of 
the  "Causeries"  is  a  notice  of  M.  Droz,  who  in  1806  pub- 
lished an  essay  on  "  The  Art  of  being  Happy."  After 
speaking  of  the  work  as  "a  confession,  a  confidential  dis- 
closure," made  by  "  a  wise,  tranquil,  elevated  soul,  ani- 
mated by  a  pure  zeal,  which  has  found  for  itself  the 
secret  of  happiness,  and  wishes  to  communicate  it  to  oth- 
ers," Sainte-Beuve  makes  the  following  happy  remarks: 
"  But  men,  with  regard  to  this  matter,  which  touches 
them  so  closely,  are  more  rebellious  than  one  thinks; 
every  person  wishes  to  lie  happy  or  unhappy  in  his  own 
way.  In  order  thus  to  regulate  our  desires,  they  must 
be  already  very  moderate.  The  men  who  have  ardent 
desires  are  only  irritated  and  made  impatient  by  these 
suggestions  of  calm  wisdom,  which  recall  the  slow  con- 
versations, the  quiet  manner  of  Termosiris  and  the  smil- 
ing old  men  of  Fenelon.  Ask,  then,  the  poet,  who  has 
said  that  life  runs  in  purple  waves  in  his  veins,  to  be 
pleased  to  slacken  and  moderate  it,  as  one  might  do  with 
waves    of   milk    or    honey.      At    the    Cape    of   Good    Hope 


Ixxvi  INTKODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

there  is  a  gigantic  bird,  the  albatross,  which  as  soon  as 
the  tempest  upheaves  the  ocean,  is  happy  only  while  hov- 
ering over  the  vast  waste  of  waters.  If  that  bird  chances 
to  reach  the  border  of  the  trade  winds,  it  immediately 
turns  back,  and  plunges  again  into  the  region  of  storms. 
Mirabeau  took  pleasure  in  struggling  with  the  tempest: 
and  has  not  even  the  noble  Vauvenargues  said:  'A  some- 
what daring  turn  of  imagination  opens  to  us  oftentimes 
pathways  full  of  light.  Let  those  believe  it  who  will, 
that  one  is  made   miserable  by  the   embarrassments  that 

I  attend  great  undertakings.  It  is  in  idleness  and  mean- 
ness of  life  that  virtue  suffers,  when  a  timid  prudence 
prevents  it  from  taking  flight,  and   makes  it  creep  in  its 

'Vshackles;  but  misfortune  itself  has  its  charms  in  great 
extremities;  for  the  opposition  of  fortune  rouses  a  coura- 
geous spirit,  and  makes  it  gather  up  all  its  forces,  which 
were  before  unused.'  " 

Among  the  most  interesting  papers  in  the  "Causeries" 
are  several  in  which  the  author  has  had  occasion  to  speak 
of  the  first  Napoleon,  for  whose  genius  he  had  the  high- 
est admiration.  When  the  great  captain  first  appeared, 
he  remarks,  society  in  travail  demanded  a  savior;  civil- 
ization, exhausted  by  frightful  struggles,  called  for  one  of 
those  rare  and  powerful  men  who  thoroughly  comprehend 
the  condition  of  affairs,  and  are  strong  enough  in  head 
and  arm  to  reconstitute  the  state.  Napoleon  was  one  of 
these  men.  But  though  he  was  able  to  rescue  a  nation 
on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  to  place  it  again,  so  to 
speak,  on  its  feet,  yet  his  temperament  would  not  allow 
hiiH    to    leave    if    in    f(>pos('.     His    excessive    genius    loved 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixxvii 

adventure.  He  loved,  before  everything  else,  his  chief 
art,  that  of  war;  he  delighted  in  its  excitement,  its  risk, 
its  game,  the  gaiidia  certaminis.  "I  am  aware,"'  con- 
tinues Sainte-Beuve,  "  that  one  would  never  dare  any- 
thing great,  that  one  would  never  do  immortal  things,  if 
he  did  not  in  a  moment  risk  all  to  win  all;  but  it  is  not 
his  having  risked  all  once  or  twice,  that  I  complain  of  in 
Napoleon,  but  his  proclivity  to  risk  always.*'  After  the 
miracles  of  Austerlitz  and  of  Jena,  Napoleon,  says  his 
critic,  pushed  Fortune  to  extremities,  and  wanted  abso- 
lutely to  make  her  yield  to  him  more  than  she  could  give. 
There  is  a  moment  when  the  nature  of  things  revolts,  and 
makes  genius  itself  pay  for  its  abuse  of  power  and  success. 
This  was  evident  at  Eylau;  and  from  the  summit  of  that 
bloody  cemetery,  under  that  freezing  sky,  Napoleon,  for 
the  first  time  warned,  might  have  had  a  vision  of  the 
future.  The  disastrous  future  of  his  Eussian  expedition 
was  there  revealed  to  him,  abridged,  in  a  prophetic  vision. 
Sainte-Beuve  quotes .  from  Thiers  the  following  vivid 
comparison  of  the  English  and  the  French  soldier: 

"The  EngHsh  soldier,  well-fed,  well-dressed,  firing  with  re- 
markable accuracy,  advancing  slowly  because  he  is  ill  fitted  for 
marching  and  lacks  personal  ardor,  is  firm  and  almost  invincible 
in  certain  positions  in  which  the  nature  of  the  ground  seconds  his 
enduring  character;  but  if  you  force  him  to  march  to  attack,  and 
to  conquer  difficulties  that  can  be  overcome  only  by  vivacity,  by 
boldness,  and  by  enthusiasm,  he  is  at  fault.  In  a  word,  he  is 
steady  and  firm,  but  not  enterprising.  As  the  French  soldier,  by 
his  ardor,  his  energy,  his  promptitude,  his  readiness  to  brave 
everything,  was  the  predestined  instrument  of  the  genius  of  Na- 
poleon, so  the  steady  but  slow  soldier  of  England  was  made  for 
the  narrow  but  sagacious  and  resolute  mind  of  Arthur  Wellesley." 


Ixxviii  TNTROnrcTORY    ESSAY. 

Upon  this  passage  Sainte-Beuve  sensibly  and  pithily 
remarks,  how  much  in  the  long  run  prudence  and  te- 
nacity have  the  advantage  over  genius  and  power  mis- 
used and  abused.  Men  who,  compared  with  Napoleon, 
stand  only  in  the  second  rank,  have  been  able  to  win 
for  themselves  and  their  country  more  solid  and  last- 
ing successes  than  he,  and  to  hold  them  firmly.  Such  is 
the  advantage  which  the  Cromwells  and  the  Princes  of 
Orange  have  over  him  in  history,  and  the  same  is  true 
of  the  combined  genius  of  Pitt  and  Wellington  which 
finally  vanquish-ed  him. 

Tn  a  later  "  Causerie,"  Sainte-Beuve  reviews  the  Mem- 
oirs of  the  campaigns  of  Egypt  and  S^yria  dictated  by 
Napoleon,  and  makes  some  discriminating  remarks  on 
the  style  of  Napoleon,  which  in  its  temper,  he  thinks, 
strongly  reseml)les  that  of  Pascal. 

"  It  is  simple  and  naked.  His  military  style  may  be  compared 
with  the  most  perfect  styles  of  antiquity  on  such  subjects, — with 
those  of  Xenophon  and  Caesar.  But  in  the  works  of  these  two 
consummate  captains  the  tone  of  recital  is  more  silky  and  subtle, 
or,  at  least,  lighter  and  more  elegant.  The  style  of  Napoleon  is 
more  blunt  and  abrupt,  and  I  would  say  drier,  if  from  time  to 
time  the  great  traits  of  his  imagination  did  not  shed  a  liglit 
upon  his  composition.  He  received  a  less  attic  education  than 
those  two  illustrious  ancients,  and  he  knows  more  of  algebra. 
His  brevity  has  a  stamp  of  positiveness.  Generally,  the  will  is 
revealed  in  his  style.  The  immortal  '  Thoughts '  which  Pascal 
left  behind  him  in  the  form  of  notes,  and  which  were  meant  for 
his  eye  alone,  often  recall,  by  their  bluntness,  by  the  despotic  ac- 
cent of  which  Voltaire  accused  him,  the  character  of  the  letters 
and  dictated  pieces  of  Napoleon.  .  .  . 

"Napoleon,  in  dictating,  does  not  think  merely;  he  acts;  or, 
when  he  recollects,  he  has  so  many  things  to  ceize  at  once  that 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  Ixxlx 

hj  crowds  them  into  the  smallest  space.  Napoleon  stopped  at 
the  point  where  thought,  style  and  action  are  confounded.  In  his 
case,  the  style,  properly  so  called,  has  not  time  to  detach  itself." 

In  speaking  of  Napoleon's  Egyptian  expedition,  Sainte- 
Beuve  notices  the  fact  that  he  had  hardly  disembarked, 
when  he  advanced  against  Alexandria,  and  assaulted  the 
city  with  a  mere  handful  of  his  troops,  and  Avithout  wait- 
ing for  his  cannon.  "  'It  is  a  principle  of  war,'  says 
Napoleon,  '  that  when  one  can  use  the  thunderbolt,  it 
should  be  preferred  to  cannon.'  He  opposes  this  proced- 
ui'e  to  that  of  other  generals,  who  in  similar  circum- 
stances have  wasted  several  days,  and  lost  their  oppor- 
tunity through  their  anxiety  to  be  too  well  prepared. 
But  in  order  thus  to  use  the  thunderbolt  when  cannon 
are  wanting,  there  is  one  thing  necessary, —  it  is  to  be  a 
thunderbolt  one's  self." 

In  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Causeries "  there  is  a 
charming  paper  on  the  Duchess  of  Maine,  one  of  the  odd- 
est and  most  extravagant  productions  of  the  reign  of  Lewis 
XIV. —  of  monarchical  government  pushed  to  excess.  It 
was  said  that  during  her  whole  life  she  never  went  out 
of  her  house,  and  that  she  had  not  even  put  her  head 
out  of  the  window: 

"Philosophers,  some  philosophers  at  least,  have  imagined  that 
if  man,  after  his  birth  and  in  his  first  movements,  met  with  no 
resistance  in  his  contact  with  things  around  him,  he  would  be 
unable  to  distinguish  himself  from  the  external  world,  and  that 
as  by  degrees  he  reached  out  his  arms  or  attempted  to  walk,  he 
would  believe  that  the  world  formed  a  part  of  himself, —  of  his 
own  body.  He  would  come  at  last  to  think  that  everything  else 
was  but  an  appendage  and  extension  of  his  own  personality;  he 
would  say,  with  perfect  assurance,  '  /  am  the  universe  I '    Madame 


Ixxx  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

du  Maine  held  this  belief;  for  a  long  time  she  realized  the  dream 
of  the  philosophers.  She  never  experienced  any  resistance  to  her 
wishes  until  the  time  of  the  Regency.  She  early  arranged  matters 
so  that  she  could  have  no  such  experience  by  shutting  herself  up 
in  that  little  court  at  Sceaux,  where  all  was  hers,  and  was  herself 
only  {netait  qtCelle).  For  any  person  but  herself  to  have  a  will 
or  a  desire,  would  have  seemed  to  her  an  impatience  and  a  revolt. 
.  .  .  During  the  foolish  conspiracy  which  she  planned,  out  of  spite 
to  the  Regent  (1718),  and  into  which  she  urged  her  timid  hus- 
band, she  saw  at  last  that  the  world  was  bigger,  more  rebellious, 
and  more  difficult  to  move  than  she  had  believed.  Every  other 
person  would  have  learned  some  lesson  from  this,  or,  at  least, 
would  have  been  disgusted  and  saddened  by  it;  but  the  force  of 
nature  and  of  first  impressions  won  the  day.  .  .  .  She  remained 
persuaded  as  before,  that  the  order  of  the  world,  when  it  went 
well,  was  arranged  wholly  and  only  for  her.  In  a  word,  to  resume 
the  former  comparison,  she  was  like  a  person  who  has  fallen  one 
day  by  a  misstep  from  the  first  story  of  her  house,  without  vei-y 
much  damage,  but  who,  on  account  of  that,  has  not  put  and  never 
will  put  her  head  out  of  the  window." 

That  Sainte-Beuve  had  little  sympathy  with  the  liter- 
ary taste  of  the  age, —  at  least  with  some  of  its  leading 
qualities, —  is  evident  from  many  passages  in  the  "  Caus- 
eries."  Above  all,  did  his  delicate  and  refined  taste  re- 
volt at  the  flaring  colors,  the  excessive  emphasis,  the  per- 
petual attempts  to  gild  copper,  and  to  dazzle  with  an 
unnatural  and  fatiguing  brilliancy,  which  characterize  so 
many  of  the  popular  and  even  eminent  writers  of  our 
time.  The  present  age  he  regarded  as  "  a  state  of  self- 
styled  civilization,  in  which  the  cry  prevails  over  the 
smile,  in  which  it  is  necessary  to  insist  with  all  one's 
might  upon  everything,  and  in  which  even  pleasantri/  offen 
needs  a  speaking-trum2}6t ! ''  Again,  he  sa3^s:  "A  friend 
who,  after  having  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  has  al- 


SAINTK-JHKUVE.  Ixxxi 

most  entirely  withdrawn  from  it,  and  wlao  judges  from  a 
distance,  and  as  it  were  from  tlie  shore,  the  swift  whirl- 
pool in  wliich  we  are  tossing,  lately  wrote  to  me  touch- 
ing certain  rough  estimates  I  had  made  of  contemporary 
works:  'All  that  you  say  of  our  sublime  icr iters  interests 
me  exceedingly.  Sublime  they  certainly  are !  What  they 
lack  is  calmness  and  freshness,  a  little  pure  cold  water 
to  cool  our  burning  palates.'  .  .  . 

In  Sainte-Beuve's  "  Portraits  of  Women,"  from  which 
the  last  passage  has  been  taken,  there  are  many  beautiful 
and  striking  reflections,  over  which  the  thoughtful  reader 
will  linger.     In  his  sketch  of  Madame  Roland  he  says: 

\!  "  The  perfect  moral  being,  if  it  ever  is  formed  in  us,  is  formed 
\  early;  it  exists  at  twenty  in  all  its  integrity  and  in  all  its  grace. 
Then,  if  ever,  we  bear  within  us  our  Plutarchian  hero,  our  Alex- 
ander. At  a  later  day  we  too  often  survive  our  hero.  In  propor- 
tion as  he  develops  and  is  displayed  more  in  the  eyes  of  others, 
he  suffers  loss.  When  everybody  begins  to  appreciate  him,  he  is 
already  degenerating.  Sometimes  (horrible  thought!)  he  has  al- 
ready ceased  to  exist.  Frankness,  self-devotion,  fidelity,  courage, 
—  these  still  keep  the  same  names,  but  they  hardly  merit  them. 
Every  soul,  as  it  moves  on,  suffers  all  the  injuries,  all  the  waste 
■^  of  which  it  is  capable.  'All  men,'  said  the  noble  and  kindly 
Vauvenargues,  'are  born  sincere,  and  die  deceitful.'  It  might 
have  sufficed  him,  for  the  expression  of  his  bitter  thought,  to 
say  that  they  die  undeceired.  At  least,  even  in  the  best  men, 
what  is  called  progress  in  life  is  far  inferior  to  the  primitive 
ideal  which  they  realized  at  some  moment  in  youth.  .  .  . 

"'How  many  a  Hampden,'  says  Gray  in  his  Counfri/  Church- 
!/nrd,  'sleeps  unknown  under  the  sod.'  I  have  tried  sometimes 
to  imagine  what  Cardinal  Richelieu  would  have  been,  if  fate  had 
restricted  him  to  a  private  life:  what  an  ill-tempered  neighbor, 
or,  to  speak  vulgarly,  what  a  bad  bedfellow  he  would  have  made! 
Bonaparte,  just  before  '95. —  when  he  is  without  employment,  and 


Ixxxii  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

when  he  is  going  to  extinguish  Bourrienne  or  Madame  Permon 
with  his  strange  whifFs, — suggests  a  similar  idea.  How  rare  are 
the  beings  who  seem  equally  in  their  place,  equally  good  and  ex- 
cellent, in  private  life,  and  great  in  public  life,  like  Washington 
and  Madame  Roland!" 

Sainte-Beuve  closes  several  volumes  of  the  "  Causeries" 
with  a  series  of  disconnected  "  Thoughts,"  which,  he  says, 
are  addi'essed  less  to  the  puljlic  than  to  habitues  and 
friends.  We  have  room  for  but  one  of  them:  "To 
gather  together,  to  maintain,  and  bring  to  bear  at  once, 
at  a  given  instant,  the  greatest  number  of  related  things 
{rapports),  to  act  in  mass  and  in  concert,  is  the  great 
and  difficult  art,  whether  one  be  a  commander  of  an 
army,  an  orator,  or  a  writer.  There  are  generals  who 
cannot  assemble  and  manoeuvre  more  than  ten  thousand 
men,  and  there  are  writers  who  can  handle  at  most  but 
one  or  two  ideas  at  once.  There  are  writers  who  re- 
semble Marshal  Soubise  in  the  Seven  Years"  War:  when 
he  had  all  his  troops  gathered  at  his  disposal,  he  knew 
not  what  to  do  with  them,  and  he  dispersed  them  again 
that  he  might  fight  to  better  advantage.  So  I  know  of 
Winters,  who,  before  writing,  dismiss  half  of  their  ideas, 
because  they  can  express  them  only  one  by  one:  it  is 
pitiful.  It  shows  that  one  is  embarrassed  by  his  very 
resources." 

Sainte-Beuve  wrote  no  great  work :  there  is  no  one 
massive  whole  on  which  you  can  lay  your  hand  and  say, 
here  is  a  full  reflection. —  the  pith  and  quintessence, —  of 
the  man.  But  if  he  was  not  a  great  man.  he  was,  as  a 
writer  has  well  said,  what  ^Ir.  Kuskin  esteems  as  some- 
thing better, —  an  encourager  of  greatness.      To  be  great 


SAIXTE-BEUVE.  Ixxxiii 

one's  self,  that  eloquent  writer  tells  ii^,  is  but  to  add  one 
great  man  to  the  world;  whereas  to  exliibit  the  greatness 
of  twelve  other  men,  is  to  enrich  the  world  with-  twelve 
great  men. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  career  Sainte-Beuve  had  a 
mannerism  which  seemed  ingrained;  he  "caressed  and 
refined  his  stj'le";  but  with  years  it  mellowed  more  and 
more,  and  he  ended  wdth  a  simplicity  which  was  the  per- 
fection of  art.  It  was  the  great  muse  Necessity,  he  tells 
us,  that,  in  the  first  instance,  compelled  the  change;  that 
Necessity  which,  at  certain  great  moments,  impels  the 
dumb  to  speak  and  the  stammerer  to  articulate,  com- 
pelled him  in  an  instant  to  employ  a  sharp,  clear,  rapid 
form  of  expression, —  to  address  everybody  in  everybody's 
language;  and  for  this  he  was  thankful.  Henceforward 
his  rank  as  the  leading  critical  spirit  of  the  age  was 
assured.  Moving  in  the  best  Parisian  circles, —  studying, 
thinking,  observing, —  devouring  books  to  an  extent  that 
might  appal  the  most  omniverous  German  scholar, —  he 
kept  his  mind  fresh  and  teeming,  and  the  drafts  he  made 
on  it  seemed  never  to  diminish  the  capital.  Like  all 
great  writers,  he  had  the  defects  of  his  qualities.  He  is 
never  dull ;  he  never,  as  Rivarol  said  of  Condorcet,  "  writes 
with  opium  on  leaves  of  lead"';  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
his  style,  with  all  its  merits,  rarely  rises  to  elocjuence,  for 
eloquence  demands  deep  conviction  and  deep  feeling,  which 
Sainte-Beuve  did  not  have.  It  delights,  also,  in  striking 
contrasts, —  in  large  masses  of  light  and  shadow, —  forms 
of  expression  which  the  criticnl  mind,  devoted  to  analysis 
and  to  the  discovery  of  delicate  shades  of  affinity  or  dif- 


Ixxxiv  INTKODUCTOKY    ESSAY. 

ference,  never  employs.  Sainte-Beuve  was  not  what  Dr. 
Johnson  calls  "  a  good  hater."  With  his  aversion  to 
magisterial  airs  and  to  emphasis,  was  hound  up  a  certain 
lack  of  earnestness,  of  moral  force,  which,  whether  nat- 
ural, or  the  result  of  self-repression,  will  seem  a  defect 
to  many  positive  and  aggressive  minds.  They  would  be 
glad  if  they  could  say  of  him  as  he  has  said  of  Montalem- 
bert:  "  il  a  la  facidte  cV indignation.  II  a  conserre  dans 
sa  vivacite  premiere  le  sentiment  du  juste  et  de  Vinjuste.'''' 
It  would  be  refreshing  to  them  if  he  would  occasionally 
flame  up  into  a  burning  wrath,  and  hurl  a  thunderbolt 
or  two,  or  deal  a  good  sledge-hammer  blow.  Perhaps 
this  lack  of  anger  and  scorn  was  due  to  his  doctrine  of 
"  Indifference,"  which  he  declared  to  be  a  distinguishing 
quality  of  the  critical  genius.  Perhaps,  had  one  thus 
accused  him,  he  would  have  said  that  "with  some  natures 
earnestness  does  not  show  itself  in  active  force,  but  in 
the  form  of  serenity  and  sweetness;  that  the  Greek  Pal- 
las-Athene is  not  seen  in  the  attitude  of  a  wrestler,  but 
in  calm  self-control  and  repose."  Be  this  as  it  may,  we 
must  admit  that,  with  all  his  shortcomings,  he  was  a 
man  of  letters  to  whom,  in  the  words  of  the  '"  Edinburgh 
Review,"  "  neither  France,  nor  perhaps  EuropCj  will  soon 
produce  a  rival, —  in  short,  an  epitome  of  the  finest  cul- 
ture of  modern  times." 

It  is  sad  to  think  that  this  fine  intelligence  died  an 
unbeliever.  We  have  seen  that  at  the  age  of  twenty  he 
had  already  become  a  fervent  disciple  of  the  doctrine  of 
Condillac  pushed  to  its  last  consequences  by  Cabanis  and 
Tracy, —  believing    that    thought    is    a    secretion    of    the 


SAINTE-KEIVE.  Ixxxv 

brain,  and  that  "  rien  de  VhoiiiDte  ne  surrif  a  I'lioitniie"' ; 
and  though  there  were  brief  periods  when  his  scepticism 
was  shaken,  and  even  as  late  as  1830  he  could  write  to 
a  friend,  "  I  have  come,  I  hope,  to  believe  that  there  is 
no  true  repose  here  below  but  in  religion,  the  orthodox 
Catholic  religion,  practised  with  intelligence  and  submis- 
sion," yet  the  subsoil  of  his  nature  was  materialistic,  and 
the  belief  in  which  he  died  is  summed  up  in  the  mourn- 
ful conclusion  of  his  History  of  Port  Royal,  in  which  he 
declares  that  he  is  '•  only  one  of  the  most  fugitive  of 
illusions  in  the  bosom  of  the  infinite  Illusion "  (nite  illu- 
sion des  plus  fugitives  an  sein  de  Vlllusion  injinie).  Let 
us  remember,  however,  to  his  credit,  while  pitying  him 
for  this  dreary  conviction,  that  he  was  frank  and  out- 
spoken in  his  opinions,  neither  cloaking  his  atheism  on 
the  one  hand,  nor  flaunting  it  in  the  world's  face  on  the 
other.  He  had  not  learned  the  modern  and  Jesuitical 
trick  of  wearing  the  shield  and  device  of  a  faith,  and 
shouting  the  cry  of  a  church,  while  all  the  time  secretly 
repudiating  or  explaining  away  its  doctrines.  In  a  day 
when  "  the  theologian  would  fain  pass  for  rationalist, 
and  the  freethinker  for  a  person  with  his  own  ortho- 
doxies if  you  only  knew  them,"  it  is  something  in  a 
man's  favor  that,  if  he  holds  doctrines  that  we  dislike,  he 
does  not  sail  under  a  false  flag,  but  can  say  with  Burns: 

" I  rather  would  be 


An  atheist  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colors  hid  be, 
Just  for  a  screen." 

Sainte-Beuve    had   his   inconsistencies,   his    positive  faults 


Ixxxvi  IXTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

and  his  infirmities;  but  he  did  not  cant  against  cant, 
dogmatize  against  dogmatism,  or  pretend  that  only  doubt- 
ers and  disbelievers  are  honest, —  that  they  only  sit  in 
the  serene  regions  of  "  sweetness  and  light,"  and  are  en- 
titled  to  the  name  of  ''  advanced  thinkers."  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  know  that  there  were  christians,  earnest,  zealous 
christians,  ultra-orthodox  in  belief,  who  could  love  him  in 
spite  of  his  chilling  scepticism,  as  an  incident  related  by 
the  Paris  correspondent  of  the  "Chicago  Tribune"  shows: 
One  evening  Sainte-Beuve  was  dining  in  a  restaurant,  at 
a  table  near  one  where  Lacordaire  was  sitting,  and  thus 
spoke  of  religion  to  a  companion:  "My  dear  sir,  it  is 
stronger  than  me.  I  cannot  believe  in  God,  because  I 
believe  only  in  what  T  understand."  Lacordaire,  over- 
hearing the  remark,  rose  abruptly  to  his  full  height, 
and,  raising  one  hand  to  heaven,  exclaimed:  '"  There  is 
Sainte-Beuve,  who  does  not  believe  in  God,  because  he 
does  not  understand  him.  Nor  does  he  understand  why 
or  how  the  same  fire  melts  butter  and  hardens  eggs: 
and  yet  he  eats  an  omelette!"  Sainte-Beuve,  taken  aback 
Ijy  this  abrupt  apostrophe,  made  no  reply ;  Init,  rising  in 
his  turn,  he  took  the  hery  Dominican  by  the  hand,  and 
"from  that  moment  the  two  men,  who  pi'esented  so  glar- 
ing a  contrast,  physical  and  intellectual. —  tlie  one  cor- 
pulent, impassioned,  credulous,  violent,  inspired,  and  al- 
most an  apostle;  the  other  small,  slender,  incredulous, 
patient,  lettered, —  formed  a  sincere  and  ardent  friend- 
ship which  was  broken  only  by  the  priest's  death." 


«    ^      3  J   ,      > 


LEWIS  THE   FOURTEENTH. 


TTNDER  the  imposing  title  of  ]Vorks*  there  are  ex- 
^  tant  six  volumes  of  the  most  interesting  and  the 
most  authentic  of  the  writings  of  Lewis  XIV,  which  might 
more  justly  be  entitled  Memoirs;  they  are  composed,  indeed, 
of  real  memoirs  of  his  reign  and  of  his  principal  actions, 
which  he  undertook  to  write  for  the  instruction  of  his 
son.  The  narrative  is  often  interrupted  by  very  judicious 
moral  and  royal  reflections.  The  six  or  seven  years 
which  elapsed  after  the  death  of  Car-dinal  Mazarin,  and 
which  constituted  the  first  epoch  of  the  reign  of  Lewis 
XIV  (1661-1668),  are  there  exhibited  and  described  suc- 
cessively and  in  a  continuous  detail.  The  succeeding 
years,  down  to  1694,  are  described  in  a  series  of  letters 
which  have  to  do  mox-e  specially  with  campaigns  and 
military  operations.  To  these  are  joined  a  number  of 
private  letters,  relating  to  all  the  epochs  of  the  reign. 
The  whole  forms  a  mass  of  documents,  notes  and  pre- 
cepts emanating  directly  from  the  cabinet  of  Lewis  XIV, 
and  which  shed  the  greatest  light  both  upon  his  acts 
themselves  and  upon  the  mind  by  which  they  were 
planned  and  performed.  One  evening,  in  1714,  the  king, 
being  near  his  end,  sent  the  duke  of  Noailles  to  brincr 
from  his  closet  some  papers  written  with  his  own  hand, 
which  he  wished  to  throw  into  the  fire:  "he  burned  at 
first   several    Avhich    affected    the    reputation    of   different 

*  Les  Oeuvres  de  Louis  XIV  (6  vols,  in  8vo,  1806). 


MONDAT-CHATS. 


persons;  he  was  going. , to  burn  all  the  rest,  notes,  me- 
moirs, pieccK 'of  iii's  •  >ow]i  •  cofiip6siti'6n  upon  war  or  poli- 
tics. The  duke  of  Noailles  earnestly  entreated  him  to 
give  them  to  him,  and  the  favor  was  granted."  The 
originals,  deposited  by  the  duke  in  the  king's  library, 
have  been  preserved  there;  it  was  from  these  manu- 
scripts that  the  selections  were  made  in  1806  for  the  six 
volumes  of  which  I  speak,  and  to  which,  I  know  not 
why,  the  public  has  never  rendered  the  justice  nor 
accorded  the  attention  which  they  deserve.  These  vol- 
umes have  been  sold  for  a  long  time  at  a  low  price.  It 
was  thus  also,  but  a  few  years  ago,  with  the  nine  vol- 
umes of  Napoleon's  authentic  Memoirs.  As  for  the  works 
of  the  Great  Frederic,  they  comprise  so  much  miscellany, 
that  one  cannot  be  surprised  that  the  fine  historical  por- 
tions, which  form  their  substance,  should  have  been  for 
a  long  time  lost  in  the  literarv  jumble  which  concealed 
and  compromised  them.  Nothing  like  this  appears  in 
the  Memoirs  of  Lewis  XIV,  any  more  than  in  those  of 
Napoleon;  both  are  pure  history,  the  reflections  of  men 
who  speak  of  their  art,  and  of  the  greatest  of  arts,  that  of 
governing.  Our  levity  is  thus  shown;  the  most  frivolous 
of  political  pamphlets  was  read  by  everybody,  while 
many  distinguished  and  serious  minds  did  not  trouble 
themselves  even  to  learn  whether  there  was  an  oppor- 
tunity to  read  these  writings  attributed  to  the  greatest 
men,  the  stamp  of  whose  genius  or  good  sense  is  visible 
on  every  page. 

Lewis  XIV  had  only  good  sense,-  but  he  had  a  good 
deal.  The  impression  which  the  reading  of  his  writings 
makes,  and  especially  of  those  which  date  from  his  youth, 
is  well  fitted  to  redouble  our  respect  for  him.     The  smile 


LEWIS  THE   FOURTEENTH,  3 

which  we  cannot  restrain  at  certain  passages  will  soon 
die  on  the  lips  and  give  place  to  a  higher  sentiment 
when  we  know  that  all  souls  require,  after  all,  some 
springs  of  action,  and  that  a  prince  who  should  doubt 
himself,  a  sceptical  king,  would  be  the  worst  of  kings. 
The  wheel  of  history,  which  turns  incessantly,  has  taken 
us  back  to  the  point  of  view  to  which  we  needed  to  be 
taken,  in  order  better  to  comprehend,  perhaps,  the  qual- 
ities of  a  sovereign  and  royal  nature,  and  its  use  in 
society.  Let  us  spend  a  few  pleasant  moments  in  viewing 
it  in  Lewis  XIV  in  its  purit}^  and  its  hereditaiy  exalta- 
tion, and  before  Mirabeau  has  come. 

Lewis  XIV  in  childhood  had  certain  remarkable  traits 
and  serious  graces  which  distinguished  him  from  all 
other  children  of  his  age.  The  wise  and  sensible  Madame 
de  Motteville  has  traced  for  us  some  charming  portraits 
of  him  in  those  years;  she  says  that,  at  a  ball  which 
took  place  at  Cardinal  Mazarin's, — 

"The  king  had  on  a  suit  of  black  satin,  embroidered  with 
gold  and  silver,  in  which  the  black  served  chiefly  to  set  off  the 
embroidery.  Some  flesh-colored  feathers  and  some  ribbons  of  the 
same  color  completed  his  attire;  but  the  beautiful  features  of  his 
face,  the  mingled  sweetness  and  gravity  of  his  eyes,  the  white- 
ness and  liveliness  of  his  complexion,  with  his  hair,  which  was 
then  of  a  very  hght,  flaxen  hue,  adorned  him  still  more  than  his 
dress.  He  danced  to  perfection,  and,  although  he  was  then  but 
eight  years  old,  one  could  say  of  him  that  he  was  one  of  the 
best-mannered  and  certainly  one  of  the  most  beautiful  persons  in 
the  company." 

Again,  speaking  of  his  intimacy  with  the  young  Prince 
of  Wales  (afterward  Charles  II),  who  was  then  in  France, 
she  says: 

"The  king,  who  was  charmingly  beautiful,  although  young,  was 
already  tall.     He  was  grave,  and  in  his  eyes  there  was  a  serious 


4  MONDAY-CHATS. 

look,  which  indicated  his  dignity.     He  was  prudent  enough  not  to 
say  anything,  from  fear  of  not  speaking  well." 

About  that  time  the  king  fell  sick  of  the  small-pox, 
causing  his  mother  to  feel  the  greatest  uneasiness.  He 
manifested  to  her  a  tender  and  touchincr  orratitude: 

"During  that  malady  the  king  impressed  all  who  approached 
him  with  his  sweetness  and  goodness.  He  spoke  kindly  of  those 
who  waited  on  him;  he  said  witty  and  obliging  things  to  them,  and 
was  docile  in  regard  to  all  that  the  doctors  desired  of  him.  The 
queen  received  from  him  proofs  of  regard  which  deeply  affected 
her.  ..." 

These  first  traits  it  was  essential  to  make  known.  One 
of  the  austerest  contemporaries  of  Lewis  XIV,  Saint-Simon, 
who  saw  and  knew  him  only  in  the  last  twenty-two  years 
of  his  life,  amid  some  penetrating  analyses  which  he  has 
given  of  his  various  qualities,  observes: 

"He  was  born  wise,  moderate,  secretive,  master  of  his  feelings 
and  of  his  tongue.  Will  one  believe  it  ?  he  was  horn  good  and  just, 
and  God  had  given  him  ability  enough  to  be  a  good  king,  and 
perhaps  even  a  very  great  king.  ..." 

That  there  was  in  Lewis  XIV  a  primal  soil  of  goodness, 
of  sweetness,  and  of  humanity,  which  disappeared  too  soon 
amid  the  idolatries  of  the  supreme  rank,  Saint-Simon  per- 
ceives, and  testifies  even  by  his  astonishment;  Madame  de 
Motteville  makes  us  see  in  it  a  natiiral  characteristic  of 
the  child-king,  and  more  than  one  word  of  Lewis  XIV,  in 
the  sincere  pages  of  his  youth,  will  confirm  us  in  this 
view  of  his  character. 

Gravity  and  sweetness, —  all  his  contemporaries  have 
agreed  in  noting  these  two  conspicuous  traits,  although 
sweetness  gave  place  more  and  more  to  gravity.  "  I  have 
often  remarked  with  astonishment,"  says  Madame  de  Motte- 
ville again,  "  that   when  at   his   games    and   amusements, 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH.  5 

that  prince  seldom  laughed."  There  is  a  letter  extant  in 
which  he  asks  the  duke  of  Parma  (July  5,  1661,)  to  send 
him  a  Harlequin  for  his  Italian  troupe;  he  makes  the  re- 
quest in  the  most  serious  terms,  and  without  the  slightest 
expression  of  gaiety.  If  he  was  at  a  ball,  or  danced,  Mad- 
ame de  Sevigne,  who  watched  him  anxiously  during  the 
trial  of  Fouquet,  applied  to  him  some  lines  of  Tasso,  from 
which  it  appears  that,  even  at  the  ballets,  he  had,  like 
Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  a  physiognomy  which  inspired  fear 
rather  than  hope.  "  He  was  personally  kind,  civil,  and 
easily  accessible  to  everybody,  but  had  a  grave  and  majestic 
manner  which  inspired  people  with  respect  and  fear,  and 
prevented  those  whom  he  esteemed  the  most  from  taking 
liberties,  even  in  private,  although  he  was  familiar  and 
sportive  with  ladies." 

The  sweetness  which  mingled  with  his  words  is  singu- 
larly attested  and  depicted  in  a  fine  passage  of  Bossuet: 

"  He  who  would  understand  how  far  reason  presides  in  the  coun- 
sels of  that  prince,  has  only  to  listen  when  he  is  pleased  to  explain 
their  motives.  I  might  call  to  witness  here  the  wise  ministers  of 
foreign  courts,  who  found  him  as  convincing  in  his  conversation  as 
formidable  by  his  arms.  The  nobleness  of  his  expressions  came 
from  that  of  his  sentiments,  and  the  precision  of  his  words  is  the 
image  of  the  justness  that  reigns  in  his  thoughts.  While  he  speaks 
with  so  much  force,  a  surprising  sweetness  opens  all  hearts  to  him, 
and  gives,  I  know  not  how,  a  new  lustre  to  the  majesty  which  it 
tempers." 

This  would  be  the  best  epigraph  to  place  at  the  head 
of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth's  writings,  and  it  would  be  found 
partially  justified  by  their  perusal. 

When  beginning  at  twenty-three  to  desire  to  reign 
wholly  alone,  Lewis  XIV  made  it  one  of  his  essential 
occupations  and  duties,  to  note  his  principal  acts  in  writ- 


6  MOXD  AY-CHATS. 

ino-,  to  frive  an  account  of  them,  and  to  use  them  as  a 
means  of  teaching  his  son,  who,  at  a  later  day,  will  be  able 
to  train  himself  thereby  in  the  art  of  reigning.  The  idea 
of  glory,  which  is  inseparable  from  Lewis  XIV,  mingles 
with  these  motives,  and  as  posterity  will  one  day  be  busy 
with  his  deeds,  and  as  the  passion  and  genius  of  different 
writers  will  be  exercised  upon  them,  he  wishes  his  son  to 
have  thiTS  the  means  of  correcting  History  if  it  should 
make  any  mistakes. 

Lewis  XIV,  who  had  little  knowledge  of  letters,  and 
whose  early  education  was  very  much  neglected,  had 
received  that  far  superior  instruction  which  a  just  and 
upright  mind  and  a  noble  heart  obtain  from  the  events  in 
which  one  is  early  engaged.  Mazarin,  who  in  his  last 
years  understood  him,  had  given  him  in  conversation  some 
political  advice,  which  the  young  man  apprehended  more 
quickly  than  would  many  minds  reputed  more  cultivated 
and  more  subtle.  Mazarin  declared  to  those  who  doubted 
the  young  king's  future,  "  that  they  did  not  know  him, 
and  that  there  was  stuff  enough  in  him  to  make  four 
kings  and  an  honest  man." 

Lewis  has  himself  revealed  the  first  idea  he  had  of 
things,  and  that  first  inner  education  which  gradually  went 
on  in  his  mind,  his  first  doubts  in  view  of  difficulties,  his 
reasons  for  waiting  and  delaying;  for,  "preferring,  as  he 
did,  a  high  reputation,  if  he  could  accpiire  it.  to  all  things 
else,  even  to  life  itself; "  he  understood  at  the  same  time, 
that  "liis  first  measures  would  either  lay  its  foundations, 
or  would  cause  him  to  lose  forever  even  the  hope  of  it;" 
so  that  the  same  sole  desire  of  glory,  which  urged  him  on, 
almost  equally  restrained  liim.     He  says: 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH.  7 

"I  did  not  cease,  nevertheless,  to  exercise  and  to  make  trial 
of  mj-self  in  secret  and  without  a  confidant,  reasoning  alone,  in 
my  own  mind,  upon  all  the  events  that  occurred;  full  of  hope  and 
of  joy  when  I'discovered  sometimes  that  my  first  thoughts  were 
the  same  as  those  at  which  clever  and  accompUshed  people  arrived, 
and  fully  persuaded  that  I  had  not  been  placed  and  preserved  upon 
the  throne  with  so  great  a  passion  for  doing  well,  mthout  being 
able  to  find  the  means." 

After  Mazarin's  death  Lewis  XIV  had  no  longer  any 
motive  for  delay: 

"I  began  then  to  cast  my  eyes  over  all  the  different  affairs  of 
the  State,  not  indifferent  eyes,  but  the  eyes  of  a  master,  deeply 
concerned  at  not  seeing  one  which  did  not  invite  and  urge  me  to 
give  attention  to  it,  but  carefully  observing  what  the  times  and 
the  condition  of  things  would  permit  me  to  do" 

Lewis  XIV,  relicrious  as  he  is,  believes  that  there  are 
lights  which  are  proportioned  to  the  situations,  and  par- 
ticularly to  that  of  a  king:  "God,  who  made  you  king," 
says  he,  "  will  give  you  the  lights  which  you  requix-e,  so 
long  as  your  intentions  are  good."  He  believes  that  a 
sovereign  naturally  looks  at  the  subjects  presented  to  him, 
in  a  more  perfect  manner  than  most  men.  Such  a  convic- 
tion, we  feel,  is  dangerous;  it  is  going  soon  to  be  abused. 
Nevertheless,  limited  and  understood  in  a  certain  sense, 
this  idea  is  a  correct  one.  "  I  do  not  fear  to  tell  you,"  he 
writes  for  his  son,  "  that  the  higher  a  station  is,  the  more 
duties  it  has  which  one  can  neither  see  nor  understand 
but  by  occupying  it." 

Saint-Simon,  whom  I  shall  here  dare  to  contradict  and 
refute,  has  said  of  Lewis  XIV  : 

"Born  with  a  mind  below  mediocrity,  but  with  a  mind  capa- 
ble of  forming,  polishing  and  refining  itself,  of  borrowing  from 
others  without  imitation  and  without  difficulty,  he  profited  infi- 
nitely by  having  lived  all  his  life  with  people  of  the  world  who 


8  MONDAY-CHATS. 

had   the  most  talent,  and  of  the  most  various  kinds, — with  men 
and  women  of  every  age,  of  every  class,  and  of  every  character." 

He  returns  several  times  to  this  idea  that  Lewis  XIV 
had  onl}^  a  mind  Moiv  mediocrifij,  but  was  very  capable 
of  acquiring  knowledge  and  of  improving  himself,  of  ap- 
projoriating  whatever  he  saw  others  do.  There  is  one 
important  thing,  however,  Avhich  Lewis  had  not  to  bor- 
row from  anybody,  and  which,  was  very  original  with 
him;  it  is  that  office,  that  real  function  of  the  sovereign, 
of  which  no  one  about  him  had  then  an  idea,  which  the 
troubles  of  the  Fronde  had  suffered  to  be  debased  and  to 
decay  in  men's  minds,  and  which  Mazarin,  even  at  the 
restoration  of  the  kingly  power,  had  but  slightly  rein- 
stated in  the  public  reverence.  Lewis  XIV  felt  its  inspi- 
ration, and  manifested  its  character  visibly  to  all.  Nature 
had  designated  him  for  this,  physically,  by  a  singular 
mixture  of  comeliness  and  majesty.  Wherever  he  had 
been,  he  had  been  at  once  distinguished  and  recognized 
as  one  recognizes  "  the  queen  among  the  bees."  The  solid 
qualities  of  his  mind,  his  laborious  ajiplication  to  affaii'S, 
as  well  as  the  sentiments  of  his  heart,  corresponded  with 
this  desire  of  nature  and  the  part  assigned  to  him  by 
destiny.  Later,  and  speedily  too,  he  will  outgrow  this 
character,  but,  in  the  beginning,  he  only  realizes  it  in 
perfection  and  with  a  great  fitness. 

Saint-Simon,  who  came  at  the  end  of  that  reign,  and 
at  an  epoch  when  the  spirit  of  opposition  reappeared,  has 
not  sufficiently  noted  that  first  moment  of  entire  and 
pure  royal  originality  in  Lewis  the  Fourteenth's  career. 
His  long  reign,  indeed,  began  very  much  to  weary  the 
peoples,  and  they  longed  everywhere  to  be  released.  But 
the  reply  which  we  might  make  to  Saint-Simon,  is  made 
by  Lewis  XIV  himself,  and  in  terms  worthy  of  both: 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH.  9 

"Hardly  do  we  remark  the  admirable  order  of  the  world,  and 
the  regular  and  useful  course  of  the  sun,  before  some  derange- 
ment of  the  seasons,  or  some  apparent  disorder  in  the  machine, 
makes  us  give  it  a  little  more  reflection.  So  long  as  all  goes  well 
m  a  State,  one  may  forget  the  infinite  blessings  which  royalty  con- 
fers, and  only  envy  those  which  it  possesses;  man,  naturally  am- 
bitious and  proud,  never  finds  in  himself  a  reason  why  another 
should  rule  him  till  his  own  necessity  makes  him  feel  it.  But  of 
this  very  necessity,  as  soon  as  there  is  a  constant  and  regular  rem- 
edy for  it,  custom  renders  him  insensible.  It  is  the  extraordinary 
accidents  which  make  him  consider  the  blessings  that  government 
ordinai'ily  confers  upon  him,  and  reflect  that,  without  rule,  he  would 
be  a  prey  to  the  strongest,  he  would  find  in  the  world  neither, 
justice  nor  reason,  neither  security  for  his  possessions  nor  remedy 
for  his  losses;  and  it  is  thus  that  he  comes  to  love  obedience  as 
much  as  he  loves  his  own  life  and  his  own  tranquillity." 

This  is  what  Lewis  XIV  writes,  what  he  dictates. 
Saint-Simon  has  given  us  an  account  of  two  or  three 
audiences  which  he  had  with  him,  and  has  vividly  de- 
scribed the  feeling  of  respect,  of  submission,  and  of  grate- 
ful joy  which  he  brought-  away  from  them.  With  the 
rarest  qualifications  as  an  observer,  he  recognized  his 
master  as  he  approached  him,  and  the  very  detail  into 
which  he  enters  upon  this  subject  is  proof  of  it.  The 
page  which  I  have  just  cited  permits  me  to  believe  that, 
if  (supposing  an  impossibility)  a  political  conversation 
had  taken  place  between  them,  Lewis  XIV,  in  a  simple 
style  and  with  an  easy  good  sense,  would  still  have  main- 
tained, on  all  essential  points,  his  sovereign  superiority. 
Let  us  leave  to  each  the  name  which  properly  designates 
him.  Saint-Simon  was  a  great  painter  and  a  profound 
moralist;  Lewis  XTV  was  a  king.  He  wished  to  show  to 
all  the  earth,  and  it  is  he  who  says  it,  that  there  teas 
stiU  0)ie  ki>if/  in   tlie  irnrhl. 

In  the  reforms  of  every  kind  which  he  undertakes  si- 


10  MONDAY-CHATS. 

multaneously  in  the  finances,  in  the  administration  of 
justice,  in  the  military  regulations,  in  foreign  affairs, 
Lewis  XIV  does  not  betray,  however,  any  immoderate 
haste.  He  examines,  he  hears,  he  consults;  then  he  decides 
for  himself:  "decision  demands  a  master's  mind."  This 
last  point  was  always  the  great  claim  of  Lewis  XIV:  not 
to  let  himself  be  governed,  to  have  no  prime  minister. 
It  has  been  remarked  that  in  this  there  was  more  of 
appearance  than  of  reality,  and  that  soon,  for  lack  of  a 
prime  minister,  he  had  some  chief  deputies,  who,  by  art 
and  flattery,  knew  how  to  make  him  adopt,  as  if  by  his 
own  impulse,  whatever  they  desired.  But  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  during  the  first  seven  or  eight  years  of  his 
youth,  it  seems  to  me  that  Lewis  escaj)es  from  this  re- 
proach. The  peculiar  cast  of  his  mind  is  judicial  and 
ratiocinative ;  he  has  a  positive  mind,  which  loves  public 
affairs,  finds  them  agreeable  because  of  their  utility,  and 
keeps  an  account  of  facts  in  the  greatest  detail.  "  No  man," 
he  says,  "  who  is  ill-informed,  can  help  reasoning  badly." 
And  with  a  conclusion  worthy  of  a  moralist,  he  finely 
adds:  "I  believe  that  no  man,  who  should  be  well  informed 
and  well  persuaded  of  all  that  is,  would  ever  do  otherwise 
than  he  ought." 

He  finds  a  real  pleasure  even  in  application  and  self- 
information;  he  enjoys  clearing  up  what  is  obscure:  "I 
have  already  begun,"  he  writes  on  the  evening  of  Foiiquet's 
arrest,  "  to  taste  the  pleasure  there  is  in  laboring  one's 
self  at  the  finances,  having,  in  the  little  attention  which 
I  have  given  them  this  afternoon,  noticed  some  important 
things  into  which  I  saw  but  little;  and  one  must  not 
suspect  that  I  shall  stop."  He  makes  us  feel  at  every 
moment    the    kind    of   charm    there   is   in   the    exercise  of 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH.  11 

good  sense.*  He  believes  that  good  sense,  tested  by  prac- 
tice and  experience,  is  the  best  counsellor  and  the  surest 
guide;  and  he  is  tempted  sometimes  to  regard  written 
counsels  (beginning  with  those  he  gives  to  his  son),  as 
useless;  but  he  immediately  changes  his  mind,  and  he 
thinks  that  it  is  profitable  to  every  good  mind  to  be  put 
on  its  guard  in  advance,  and  forearmed  against  errors. 
EcCTrettinsc  that  he  came  so  late  to  the  study  of  history, 
he  thinks  that  "  the  knowledge  of  those  great  events  which 
have  occurred  in  the  world  in  different  ages,  when  di- 
gested by  a  solid  and  active  mind,  ma}^  serve  to  strengthen 
the  judgment  in  all  important  deliberations."  Note  well 
that  solid  and  active  mind,  clothe  it  with  splendor  and 
majesty,  and  you  have  the  best  definition  which  can  be 
given  of  him  in  his  youth. 

His  thoroughly  royal  soul  keeps  its  equilibrium,  even 
in  its  grandest  flights;  its  very  exaltations  have  a  certain 
moderation  at  first.  Striving  to  exalt  the  sentiments 
of  his  son,  without  puffing  him  up,  he  says.  "If  I  can 
explain  my  thought  to  you,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  must 
be  at  the  same  time  humble  on  our  own  account,  and 
proud  on  account  of  the  office  we  fill."  Some  of  these 
first  pages  exhibit  more  extensive  and  more  various  apti- 
tudes of  mind  than  he  knew  how  to  manage. f  He  would 
Lave   really  clever    princes   know   how   to  transform   and 

♦The  poets  are  not,  in  general,  very  reliable  witnesses,  bnt  their  suffrage 
serves  here  only  to  interpret  the  unanimous  opinion.  Thus  La  Fontaine,  in 
an  Epistle  to  Madame  de  Thianges,  has  said: 

"  Chacun  attend  sa  gloire  ainsi  que  sa  fortune 

Du  suffrage  de  Saint-Germain. 
Le  Maitre  y  pent  beaucoup;  il  sert  de  regie  aux  autres, 

Comme  maitre  premiurement. 
Puis  comme  ayaut  un  sens  meilleur  que  tons  les  notres." 

i'  "His  soul  was  greater  than  his  mind,"  says  Montesquieu. 


12  MONDAY-CHATS. 

to  renew  themselves  according  to  political  conjunctures. 
To  be  great,  it  is  not  enough  for  a  prince  to  be  born 
seasonably:  "There  are  several  of  them  in  the  world, 
who  have  obtained  the  reputation  of  cleverness  simply  by 
the  advantage  they  have  had  of  having  been  born  at  a 
time  when  the  general  condition  of  public  affairs  was 
exactly  adapted  to  their  turn  of  mind.''  He  himself  aspires 
to  something  better;  he  wishes  to  be  one  of  those  who 
are  intellectually  competent  for  various  and  even  opposite 
situations.  "  For,  finally,  it  is  not  easy  to  transform 
one's  self  at  every  hour  in  the  way  one  should,"  and  "  the 
state  of  the  world  we  live  in  is  subject  to  revolutions  so 
different,  that  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  maintain  long 
the  same  policy."  In  reading  this  passage,  it  seems  as  if 
Lewis  XIV  had  had  a  presentiment  of  the  rock  on  which, 
at  a  later  day,  his  pride  was  going  to  founder.  He  was 
not  one  of  those  spirits  that  welcome  the  changes  of  the 
times,  and  his  final  policy  was  but  the  exaggeration  of 
his  early  policy,  amid  general  circumstances  which  were 
undergoing  incessant  modification. 

When  we  read  these  notes  written  day  by  day,  these 
reflections  which  he  made  on  each  event,  when  we  unite 
with  this  a  perusal  of  the  diplomatic  instructions  which 
he  addressed  at  the  same  time  to  his  ambassadors  and 
agents  at  the  different  ,-courts,  we  cannot  help  admiring, 
amid  the  carousals  and  fetes,  the  industry,  solidity,  pru- 
dence, and  tenacity  which  mark  the  chai-acter  of  this 
aml>iiious  3'oung  prince.  How  free  is  he  from  levity  and 
from  impulsiveness!  What  secrecy  he  has, —  that  royal 
quality  necessary  to  success  as  well  as  to  esteem,  the  ab- 
sence of  which  alone  throws  into  the  background  so  many 
politicians;    "for   great   talkers,"  he  observes,  often  utter 


LKWIS    THE    FOL'KTEENTH.  13 

great  nonsense."  How,  on  every  occasion,  lie  prefers  the 
slower  and  surer  course!  But  it  is  in  respect  to  treaties, 
above  all,  that  he  believes  one  should  not  pride  himself 
upon  his  dispatch.     He  says: 

"He  who  would  proceed  too  fast  here,  is  liable  to  take  very 
false  steps.  It  matters  not  at  what  time,  but  on  what  terms, 
a  negotiation  is  concluded.  It  is  much  better  to  finish  matters 
later  than  to  ruin  them  by  precipitation;  and  it  often  happens 
that  we  even  delay,  by  our  impatience,  that  which  we  were  too 
anxious  to  push  forward." 

This  policy  was  successful  in  his  case  at  the  peace  of 
Aix-la-Chapelle  (1668).  The  3'oung  king  thus  gives  pre- 
cepts of  a  premeditated  and  sure  slowness,  which  seem  to 
belong  to  Philippe  de  Commynes,  and  which  properly 
come  from  the  disciple  of  Mazarin. 

I  think  I  find  a  remarkable  analogy  between  this  way 
of  seeing  and  doing  which  characterizes  Lewis  XIV,  and 
that  of  the  distinguished  men  of  his  time.  Boileau  coun- 
selled writers  to  remand  their  works  twenty  times  to  the 
anvil,  and  he  advised  Racine  to  compose  laboriously  easy 
verses.  Lewis  XIV  gives  his  son  political  precepts  en- 
tirely analogous;  he  counsels  him  to  reconsider  a  plan 
twenty  times  before  executing  it;  he  would  have  him 
learn  to  find  slowl}^  in  every  affair  the  easy  expedient. 
So  also  in  many  a  moral  reflection,  which  he  inter- 
mingles with  politics,  he  shows  himself  a  worthy  contem- 
l^orary  of  Nicole  and  of  Bourdaloue. 

Even  in  military  affairs  and  in  the  sieges  which  he 
undertakes,  he  yields  to  the  difficulties  which  are  pointed 
out  to  him,  "  persuaded,"  he  says,  "  that  whatever  desire 
one  may  have  to  signalize  himself,  the  surest  road  to 
glory  is  always  that  which  reason  shows."  I  do  not  say 
that,  in  his  conduct,  he  did  not  swerve  many  times  from 


14  MONDAY-CHATS. 

that  first  resolution:  for  me,  it  is  sufficient  to  character- 
ize him,  that  he  formed  it  in  the  very  first  heat  of  his 
ambition. 

Although  he  is  conscious  of  a  leading  and  dominant 
amhition,  and  one  so  noble,  Lewis  XIV  desires  not  to 
listen  to  it  only,  but  to  counterbalance  it  by  others 
which  may  have  no  less  reference  to  the  State:  "  There 
sJiotiJd  he  varietij  in  glo)'ij  as  well  as  in  everything  else,  and 
in  that  of  princes  more  than  in  that  of  private  persons; 
for  he  who  speaks  of  a  great  king,  speaks  of  almost  all 
the  collected  talents  of  his  best  subjects."  There  are  tal- 
ents in  which  he  thinks  that  a  king  should  not  very  much 
excel;  it  is  well  and  honorable  for  him  to  be  surpassed 
in  them  by  others;  but  he  must  appreciate  them  in  all. 
The  knowledge  of  men,  the  discrimination  of  minds,  and 
the  assignment  of  every  person  to  the  employment  for  which 
he  is  fitted  and  in  which  he  will  be  most  useful  to  the 
public,  is  properly  the  great  art,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
greatest  talent,  of  a  sovereign.  There  are  princes  who 
are  right  in  fearing  to  let  themselves  be  approached  too 
nearly,  and  to  communicate  with  others;  he  does  not 
think  that  he  is  of  the  number,  and  sure  as  he  is  of 
himself,  and  of  never  running  the  risk  of  being  taken  by 
surprise,  he  succeeds  by  this  easy  communication  in  pene- 
trating more  deeply  into  the  minds  of  those  whom  he 
addresses,  and  in  knowing  personally  the  most  upright 
people  in  his  kingdom. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lewis  rendered  monarchy  des- 
potic and  Asiatic:  such  was  never  his  thought.  Having 
observed  '"that  the  liberty,  the  mildness,  and,  so  to  speak, 
the  pliancy  (/(tcilite)  of  the  monarchy,  had  passed  its  just 
bounds  during  his  minority  and  the  troubles  of  the  State, 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH,  15 


i) 


SO  as  to  become  licentiousness,  confusion,  and  disorder," 
he  believed  it  his  duty  to  retrench  that  excess  while  try- 
ing at  the  same  time  to  preserve  the  humane  and  affec- 
tionate character  of  the  monarchy,  to  maintain  near  him 
persons  of  quality  in  an  hoHorable  familiaritij,  and  to 
keep  in  communication  v^ith  the  people  by  means  of 
pleasures  and  shows  suited  to  their  genius.  In  this 
Lewis  XIV  but  half  succeeded;  he  evidently,  in  his 
pomps,  did  violence  to  the  genius  of  the  French  mon- 
archy, and,  as  he  grew  old,  ceased  to  be  longer  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  general  feeling  of  the  nation. 

He  thought,  and  he  said  expressly  to  his  son,  that 
empires  are  preserved  only  as  they  are  acquired,  that  is 
to  say,  by  vigor,  by  vigilance,  and  by  labor.  When  any 
injury  is  done  to  the  body  of  the  State,  "  it  is  not  enough 
to  repair  the  mischief,  unless  one  adds  some  good  thing 
which  it  had  not  before."  He  would  have  his  son,  instead 
of  stojjping  on  the  way,  and  looking  about  him  and  beneath 
him,  which  are  less  serviceable  acts,  look  higher: 

"Think  rather  of  those  whom  one  has  the  most  reason  to 
esteem  and  to  admire  in  the  past  ages:  who,  from  a  private 
position  or  one  of  very  moderate  influence,  by  the  mere  force  of 
their  merit,  have  come  to  found  great  empires,  have  passed  Hke 
lightning  from  one  part  of  the  world  to  another,  charmed  the 
whole  world  by  their  great  qualities,  and  left  during  so  many 
ages  a  long  and  eternal  memory  of  themselves,  which  seems, 
instead  of  perishing,  to  extend  and  strengthen  with  the  daily 
lapse  of  time." 

It  was  the  unhappiness  of  the  descendants  of  Lewis  XIV 
not  to  have  meditated  enough  upon  this  thought.  The 
condition  of  hereditary  kings  was  going  to  become  more 
and  more  like  that  of  the  founders  of  empires;  henceforth 
to  preserve  required  almost  the  same  genius  and  the  same 


16  MOKDAY-CHATS. 

courage  as  to  create  and  to  acquire.  I  pass  by  Lewis  XV 
and  the  mean  indignities  of  his  reign:  but  one  may  say 
that  the  good,  honorable,  moderate  character  of  the  respect- 
able Bourbons  who  succeeded,  was  not  equal  to  the  occa- 
sions; they  did  not  know  how  to  conform  to  the  wishes  and 
the  counsel  of  their  great  ancestor.  Therefore,  the  ascend- 
ency went  to  those  ivJio  passed  like  lightning  from  one  part 
of  the  world  to  another. 

Judicious  and  sensible  as  Lewis  XIV  generally  was,  and 
disposed  as  he  evidently  was  to  anticipate  everything  and 
to  weigh  everything,  he  felt  that  there  are  moments  when, 
as  king,  it  is  necessary  to  risk  a  little  and  to  plan  a  little  at 
a  venture,  under  penalty  of  lacking  wisdom  itself.  The 
religious  thought  which  is  joined  to  this  in  his  mind,  adds 
to  rather  than  detracts  from  whatever  is  politically  remark- 
able in  this  royal  maxim ;  and  it  is  in  these  affairs  that  we 
recognize  in  him  the  real  man  of  talent  in  the  difficult  art 
of  ruling.     He  says: 

"  Wisdom  advises  us  in  cei'tain  junctures  to  trust  much  to 
chance;  reason  herself  counsels  us  then  to  follow  I  know  not  what 
impulses  or  blind  instincts,  which  are  above  reason,  and  seem 
to  come  from  Heaven, —  which  are  known  to  all  men,  and  are  most 
worthy  of  consideration  by  those  whom  it  has  itself  placed  in  the 
first  rank.  To  say  when  we  must  distrust  them  and  when  abandon 
ourselves  to  them,  is  what  nobody  can  do;  neither  books,  nor  rules, 
nor  experiences  teach  this;  owing  to  a  certain  justness  and  a  certam 
boldness  of  mind,  they  are  found  incomparably  freer  in  the  person 
who  owes  no  account  of  his  actions  to  anybody." 

A  certain  justness  and  a  certain  boldness  of  mind:  do 
you  not  admire  the  excellent  choice  and  the  happy  juncture 
of  these  words,  and  the  large  and  noble  manner  in  which 
he  treats  of  the  simplest  things? 

I  know  it  may  be  said  that  the  text  of  these  Me- 
moirs was    finally  written   out   by  a   secretary,  and  sim- 


LEWIS   THE   FOURTEENTH.  17 

ply  from  the  king's  notes;  but  whoever  may  have  been  that 
secretary,  Pellisson  or  quite  a  different  person,  I  find 
nothing  in  these  pages  which  does  not  give  token,  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  of  the  presence  and  dictation  of  the 
master.  All  there  is  simple  and  worthy  of  him  who  said: 
"  One  observes  almost  always  some  difference  between  the 
letters  which  we  ourselves  take  the  trouble  to  write,  and 
those  which  our  cleverest  secretaries  write  for  us, —  a 
difference  which  reveals  in  the  latter  something  indescrlh- 
dbly  less  natural,  and  the  uneasiness  of  a  pen  which  is 
eternally  in  fear  of  doing  too  much  or  too  little^  I  dis- 
cover none  of  this  uneasiness,  none  of  this  rhetoric  or  this 
affected  simplicity,  in  the  pages  which  form  the  historic 
Memoirs  of  Lewis  XIV.  Everything  there  is  set  forth 
calmly  and  in  order,  with  a  perfect  clearness,  which  co- 
incides with  what  his  contemporaries  (Madame  de  Caylus, 
Madame  de  Motteville,  Saint-Simon)  have  told  us  of  the 
easy  nobleness  of  the  king's  words:  his  commonest  dis- 
courses were  never  devoid  of  a  natural  and  palpable 
majesty*      The   style    of    Lewis    XIV  has    not    the  vivid 

*One  day  in  the  youth  of  Lewis  XIV,  when  the  Court,  was  at  Lyons, 
Brienne  read  to  the  r;ueeu-niother  in  her  room,  when  Fhe  was  at  her  toilet, 
a  draught  of  some  Letters  Patent  for  the  removal  of  the  remains  of  Saints 
Madeleine.  He  had  caused  these  Letters  Patent  to  be  polished  up  by  M. 
d'Audilly,  at  the  request  of  Du  Fresne,  his  chief  deputy,  who  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  pious  writer.  While  this  was  Roing  on  the  king  entered, 
directed  the  reading  to  be  recommenced,  and  interrupted:  "You  make  me 
speak  like  a  saint,  and  I  am  not  one."  Brienne  said  to  him  that  his  chief 
deputy  had  caused  these  Letters  to  be  revised  by  one  of  the  cleverest  men, 
in  style  and  eloquence,  in  Prance.  "Who  is  that  clever  fool?"  said  the  king. 
When  M.  d'Audilly  was  named,  "  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  replied  the  king,  "  but 
that  is  not  suited  to  me  at  all."  He  took  the  Letters,  tore  them  in  pieces, 
and  threw  them  to  Brienne:  "Write  some  new  ones,"  said  he,  "in  which  I 
shall  speak  as  a  king  and  not  as  a  Jansenist."  It  was  this  roijal  note  which 
Lewis  XIV  gave  afterward  to  the  Perignyses  and  to  the  Pellissons,  and  which 
they  sought  to  observe  in  the  draughts  which  he  entrusted  to  them;  it  is 
this  mark  which  it  is  most  important  to-day  to  find  again  and  to  recognize, 
without  attempting  to  exalt  unreasonably  such  or  such  a  secretary. 

1* 


18  MOJS^  DAY-CHATS. 

and  blunt  brevity  whicb  characterizes  tbe  pages  of  Na- 
poleon, that  which  Tacitus  calls  the  imperatoyia  hrevitas  : 
that  incisive  character  of  the  conqueror  and  of  the  despot, 
that  short,  hurried,  abrupt  rhythm,  under  which  one  feels 
palpitating  the  genius  of  action  and  the  demon  of  battles, 
differs  completely  from  the  more  tranquil,  fuller,  and  in 
some  sort  hereditary  style  of  Lewis  XIV.  When  that 
monarch  forgets  himself,  and  is  negligent,  he  uses  long 
sentences,  those  sentences  which  have  since  been  the  appan- 
age of  the  younger  branch  of  the  race,  and  of  which  one 
does  not  see  the  end;  this  is  the  manner  of  Lewis  XIV 
when  he  dozes.  But  commonly,  in  the  habitual  current 
of  his  style,  he  maintains  a  proper  proportion,  the  exact 
and  happy  medium  of  the  purest  of  languages.  Henry 
IV,  the  first  Bourbon  king,  preserved  in  his  style  some- 
thing warlike  and  Gasconish,  which  Lewis  XIV  wholly 
lacks.  The  pitiful  Lewis  XV,  who  did  not  want  talent, 
and  of  whom  some  piquant  sayings  are  reported,  had  end- 
less perplexities  and  tautology  in  his  habitual  conversa- 
tion: it  was  the  Bourbon  style  after  it  had  begun  to 
soften  and  weaken.  Lewis  XIV  alone  exhibits  to  us  this 
style  in  all  its  true  plenitude  and  perfection,  and,  as  it 
were,  in  its  just  and  royal  stature. 

It  has  been  said  of  Lewis  that  nobody  told  a  story 
better  than  he:  "he  told  a  story,  and  narrated,  better 
than  a  man  of  the  world."  He  did  these  things  with  in- 
finite grace,  and  with  noble  and  delicate  turns  which  only 
he  could  give  to  them.  We  have  a  sketch  of  his  v/ay  of 
painting  and  describing,  in  his  letter  written  from  Mon- 
targis  to  Madame  de  Maintenon,  upon  the  arrival  of  the 
Duchess  of  Burgundy  in  France;  but  of  narrative  prop- 
erly so  called  or  of  story  we  have  no  specimen. 


LEWIS   THE    FOURTEENTH.  19 

Pellisson,  who  was  in  some  respects  the  Fontaines  of 
that  time,  and  whom  Lewis  XIV  drew  from  the  Bastille 
to  attach  him  to  himself  and  to  make  him  his  ordinary 
rhetorician,  has  transmitted  to  us  a  conversation,  or  rather 
a  speech,  which  was  taken  down  at  the  siege  of  Lille,  on 
the  23d  of  August,  1667,  from  the  very  lips  of  the  king. 
It  is  a  speech  upon  glory,  and  upon  the  incentives  which 
filled  the  soul  of  the  prince  at  that  moment.  He  had 
exposed  himself  in  an  action  two  days  before,  and,  as  he 
was  censured  for  it,  he  gives  his  reasons  for  his  conduct 
with  an  ingenuous  solemnity.  This  speech  shows  young 
Lewis  to  us  nakedly,  in  his  first  display  of  ambition:  "It 
seems  to  me,"  says  he,  "that  one  robs  me  of  my  glory 
when  he  can  win  glory  without  me."  That  word  ylonj 
returns  at  every  moment  to  his  lips,  and  as  he  concludes 
he  becomes  aware  of  it:  "But  it  would  ill  become  me  to 
speak  longer  of  my  glory  before  those  who  are  its  wit- 
nesses." In  this  state  of  exaltation,  this  beginning  of  an 
apotheosis,  in  which  he  is  thus  surprised,  we  find  hina, 
however,  more  estimable  than  at  a  later  day;  he  has 
some  words  of  sympathy  for  friends,  for  the  servants  who 
expose  and  sacrifice  themselves  before  his  eyes:  "There  is 
no  king,"  says  he,  "however  ill  his  heart  may  be  consti- 
tuted, who  can  see  so  many  brave  men  throw  away  their 
lives  in  his  service,  and  remain  with  his  arms  folded." 
That  is  why  he 'decided  to  go  out  of  the  trench,  and  ex- 
pose himself  unprotected  to  the  fire:  "I  thought  that  on 
an  occasion  when  all  the  appearances  indicated  that  we 
should  see  some  fine  engagement,  and  when  my  presence 
was  everything,  I  ought  to  show  openly  something  more 
than  a  hidden  valor." 

Lewis  XIV  was  not  much  of  a  soldier,  and  yet  he  pro- 


20  MONDAY-CHATS. 

fessed  to  be  one;  nothing  would  better  prove  his  weakness, 
were  it  necessary,  than  this  discussion,  this  extraordinary 
apology,  which  he  thought  it  necessary  to  make  because 
he  went  one  day  into  the  trench,  and  at  another  time  a 
little  in  advance  of  it. 

Should  we  press  him  on  his  vain-glorioas  side,  it  would 
be  only  too  easy  to  speak  flippantly  and  irrevei'ently  of 
him.  From  time  to  time  in  his  own  speeches,  we  see  him 
stop  and  return  to  himself,  in  order  to  congratulate  him- 
self delibei-ately ;  he  regards  himself  as  the  type  and 
figure  of  the  accomplished  prince;  he  sees  himself  already 
at  full  length  and  postured  before  posterity.  But  it  is 
more  useful  to  dwell  upon  the  noble  springs  of  action 
which  he  found  in  that  faith  and  in  that  royal  con- 
sciousness, which  made  him  say  amid  certain  political 
perils:  "But,  at  least,  whatever  may  be  the  event,  I  shall 
always  have  all  the  inward  gratification  which  a  gener- 
ous soul  must  have  when  it  has  satisfied  its  oivn  con- 
science.'''' 

Speaking  of  these  six  volumes  of  Memoirs  when  they 
appeared,  M.  de  Chateaubriand  judged  them  very  well  in 
these  words: 

"The  Memoirs  of  Lewis  XIV  will  increase  his  renown;  they  do 
not  unveil  any  baseness,  they  reveal  none  of  those  shameful 
secrets  which  the  human  heart  too  often  conceals  in  its  abysses. 
Seen  more  nearly  and  in  his  private  life,  Lewis  does  not  cease  to 
be  Lewis  the  Great;  one  is  charmed  to  find  that  so  fine  a  bust 
has  not  an  empty  head,  and  that  the  soul  corresponds  to  the 
nobleness  of  the  external  man." 

It  is  this  sentiment  which  predominates  as  we  read 
these  Memoirs,  and  which  triumphs  over  all  the  criticisms 
and  all  the  strictures  which  a  just  mind  has  a  right  to 
make  upon  them. 


LEWIS    THE    FOURTEENTH.  21 

And  since  we  are  now  considering  Lewis  XTV  as  a 
writer  and  as  one  of  the  models  of  speech,  I  Avill  signal- 
ize, in  concluding,  a  direct  benefit  he  confers,  and  which 
reaches  the  whole  literary  class.  I  pointed  out  the  other 
day  and  enumerated  the  literary  persons  who  grouped 
themselves  about  the  superintendent  Fouquet,  and  who 
flourished  emulously  under  his  auspices.  If  we  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  Fouquet  had  remained  in  power  and 
established  himself  there,  and  that  Lewis  XIV  had  not 
disturbed  him,  we  may  very  easily  distinguish  the  ele- 
ments and  the  spirit  of  the  literature  which  would  have 
prevailed;  it  would  have  been  a  freer  literature  in  every 
sense  than  that  which  flourished  under  Lewis  XIV,  and 
the  eighteenth  century  would  have  been  partially  antici- 
pated. We  should  have  had  La  Fontaine  without  any 
restraint,  Saint  Evremond,  Bussy,  the  Scarrons,  the  Ba- 
chaumonts,  the  Hesnaults;  many  epicureans  and  some 
libertines  would  have  glided  over  the  foreground.  That 
first  literature  of  the  day  after  the  Froude,  and  anterior 
to  Boileau  and  Racine,  being  unrestrained  by  the  master's 
eye,  would  have  grown  up  with  more  and  more  freedom 
under  so  mild  a  Macaenas.  It  was  111  ready,  we  see  it 
even  now;  libertinism  and  wit  would  have  been  its  double 
danger;  it  showed  elements  of  corruption.  The  young 
king  came,  and  he  brought  along  with  him,  he  inspired 
(suscita)  his  young  literature;  he  applied  the  proper  cor- 
rective to  the  old,  and,  saving  some  brilliant  exceptions,  he 
impressed  upon  the  mass  of  the  productions  of  his  time  a 
solid,  and,  finally,  a  moral  character  which  is  also  that  which 
reigns  in  his  own  writings  and  in  the  habit  of  his  thought.* 
January  19,  1852. 

*  In  repriuting  this  study,  I  have  often  recollected  this  saying  of  La  Bru- 
yere:  "The  character  of  the  French  people  makes  seriousness  necessary  in 
the  Bovereign." 


FENELON. 


rr^HE  present  volume  *  must  be  added  as  an  indispen- 
-*-  sable  complement  to  the  twenty-two  volumes  of  Fene- 
lon's  Works  and  to  the  eleven  volumes  of  his  Correspondence, 
that  is  to  say,  to  the  very  beautiful  and  very  fine  Paris 
edition  (1820-1829),  which  the  abbe  Gosselin  and  the  abbe 
Caron  had  in  charge.  In  this  new  volume  are  collected 
some  writings  that  are  not  without  interest,  some  business 
and  official  letters,  others  of  a  spiritual  and  advisory  char- 
acter, and  especially  some  charming  friendly  and  familiar 
letters:  these  are  quite  sufficient  to  identify  Fenelon  in 
every  respect.  The  last  part  of  the  volume  contains  some 
of  La  Fontaine's  Fables  translated  into  Latin  j)rose  for 
the  use  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy.  A  specimen  of  these 
translated  Fables  had  already  been  published;  to-day  we 
have  an  entire  series,  extending  to  the  eighth  book.  The 
keen  relish  of  Fenelon  for  La  Fontaine  is  well  known. 
When  the  poet  died  he  praised  him  in  a  pretty  Latin 
piece,  in  which  he  celebrated  his  artless  graces,  his  open 
and  simple  nature,  his  unadorned  elegance,  and  that  sin- 
gular negligence  which  was  permitted  to  him  alone,  an 
inestimable  negligence  which  is  far  superior  to  a  more 
polished  style.  (Politiori  stilo  quantum  praestitit  aurea 
neyliyentiu!) 

Fenelon  and   La  Fontaine  resemble  each  other  in  this, 

♦  Lettres  et  Opuscules  int'dits  (le  Fenelon,  1850. 


FENELON.  23 

that  we  like  them  both  without  knowing  why,  and  even  be- 
fore we  have  studied  them  carefully.  A  kind  of  perfume 
emanates  from  their  writings,  which  insinuates  itself  into 
the  mind  and  prepossesses  it  in  their  favor;  the  physi- 
ognomy of  the  man  speaks  at  the  very  first  in  behalf  of  the 
author;  the  look  and  the  smile  mingle  together,  and,  as 
we  approach  them,  the  heart  inclines  to  them  without  de- 
manding a  very  exact  account  of  the  reason.  An  exami- 
nation of  either  author  will  bring  to  light  many  defects, 
many  weak  or  languid  passages,  but  the  first  impression 
will  continue  to  be  the  true  one,  and  it  will  also  be  the 
last.  It  seems  as  if  La  Fontaine  alone,  of  all  the  French 
poets,  had  partially  complied  with  the  desire  which  Fene- 
lon  expressed  in  a  letter  to  La  Motte,  that  gifted  man 
so  little  like  La  Fontaine:  "I  am  so  much  the  more  im- 
pressed by  whatever  exquisite  compositions  we  have  in  our 
language,  because  it  is  neither  harmonious,  varied,  fi'ee, 
grand,  nor  fit  for  lofty  flights,  and  because  our  scrupulous 
versification  renders  beautiful  verse  almost  impossible  in  a 
long  woi-k."  La  Fontaine,  however,  with  such  a  language 
as  Fenelon  described,  knew  how  to  be  playful  in  poetry, 
and  to  give  to  the  most  fastidious  readei-s  that  sentiment 
of  the  exquisite  which  modern  poets  so  rarely  excite.  He 
gratified  that  other  wish  of  Fenelon:  "It  is  necessary,  if  I 
am  not  deceived,  to  take  only  the  choicest  part  of  each 
theme,  and  to  touch  only  that  which  one  can  beautify." 
And,  finally,  he  seems  to  have  been  brought  into  the  world 
expressly  to  prove  that  in  French  poetry  it  was  not  entirely 
impossible  to  find  what  Fenelon  furthermore  desired:  "  I 
would  like  something  indescribable,  which  is  an  ease  to 
which  it  is  very  difficult  to  attain."  Take  our  celebrated 
authors,  and  you  will  find  in  them  nobleness,  energy,  elo- 


24  MONDAY-CHATS. 

quence,  elegance,  passages  that  are  sublime;  but  the  in- 
describable ease  which  communicates  itself  to  all  the  sen- 
timents, to  all  the  thoughts,  and  which  captivates  the 
reader,  that  ease  mingled  with  persuasion,  you  will  rarely 
find,  save  in  Fenelon  and  La  Fontaine. 

The  reputation  of  both  went  on  increasing  to  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  whilst  that  of  many  of  their  illustrious 
contemporaries  seemed  to  diminish,  and  was  unjustly  con- 
tested. I  would  not  pretend  that  one  has  not  been  some- 
times surfeited  with  these  two  men  of  renown,  so  diversely 
amiable,  but  not  dissimilar  in  classes  so  different,  and  that 
those  who  have  praised  them  have  not  indulged  in  that 
exaggeration  and  declamation  which  were  so  disagreeable 
to  them.  For  example,  Fenelon  has  been  very  much 
praised  for  a  toleration  in  doctrinal  matters,  and  almost 
for  a  laxity,  which  certainly  did  not  characterize  him. 
The  philosophers  have  treated  him  as  if  he  was  one  of 
their  number,  and  he  has  found  favor  even  with  the  very 
persons  who  would  destroy  that  which  he  adored.  But 
shall  I  say  it?  —  in  spite  of  all  the  objections  which  may 
be  justly  made  to  this  false  philosophical  view  which  men 
have  wanted  to  take  of  Fenelon,  there  was  an  instinct 
which  -never  wholly  deceived  those  who  treated  him  with 
this  peculiar  favor;  for,  if  Fenelon  was  not  tolerant  in 
matters  of  doctrine,  he  was  so  personally  and  in  his  nat- 
ural character,  and  he  knew  how  to  give  to  everything  a 
tone,  a  graceful  turn,  an  unction  which  made  men  accept 
even  the  harshest  prescriptions. 

I  find  some  of  these  which  have  such  an  appearance 
in  the  volume  I  have  just  read,  showing  that  Fenelon 
was  by  no  means  a  bishop  according  to  the  too  easy 
ordinati'  .    of    La  Harpe,    D'Alcmbert,    and   Voltaire.      A 


FENELOlSr.  25 

number  of  the  new  letters  (and  they  are  not  otherwise 
the  most  interesting)  are  addressed  to  M.  de  Bernieres, 
then  crovernor  of  Hainault  and  afterward  of  Flanders. 
This  M.  de  Bernieres,  who,  if  I  am  not  deceived,  sprang 
from  a  family  closely  allied  to  Port  Royal,  was  a  good 
man,  of  good  mind,  and  lived  in  perfect  sympathy  with 
the  archbishop  of  Cambray.  In  March,  1700,  Fenelon 
wrote  a  letter  asking  him  to  unite  with  himself  in  mak- 
inor  regulations  for  the  observance  of  the  church  laws 
during  the  coming  Lent:  "It  has  seemed  to  me,"  says 
the  prelate,  "  that  the  rule  would  never  be  re-established, 
if  it  were  not  promptly  renewed  after  ten  years  of  con- 
tinual dispensation.  Peace  has  been  established  for  more 
than  two  3'ears;  the  winter  is  mild;  the  season  is  very 
far  advanced,  and  people  must  have  more  vegetables 
than  in  other  years;  the  high  prices  are  lessening  daily. 
Should  we  let  the  people  still  eat  eggs,  a  kind  of  pre- 
scription would  be  established  against  the  law,  as  has 
happened  with  milk,  butter,  and  cheese.  .  .  ."'  Here, 
then,  we  have  Fenelon  as  bishop,  in  good  earnest,  strict 
in  the  pettiest  details,  and  treating  them  as  important. 
But  close  by  him  we  recognize,  even  in  these  very  de- 
tails, the  Fenelon  of  tradition,  the  popular  Fenelon.  M. 
de  Bernieres,  during  that  same  Lent  of  1700,  requested 
that  the  army  might  have  certain  dispensations  from  the 
rule,  and  Fenelon  hastened  to  grant  them  to  the  soldiers; 
but  "  it  does  not  seem,  sir,"  he  adds,  "  that  I  should 
grant  to  the  officers,  paid  by  the  king,  a  dispensation 
which  I  refuse  to  the  poorest  of  the  people."  This  sen- 
timent of  equity,  especially  with  regard  to  the  humble, 
this  happiness  of  the  people,  also  evidently  prepossesses 
him   in  other  passages;  but  they  would  teach  us  nothing 


26  MONDAY-CHATS. 

new,  and  I  pass  to  the  other  letters  of  the  collection. 
There  are  some  letters  addressed  to  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon.  Fenelon,  it  is  well  known,  was  one  of  her  chief 
favorites,  whom  she  had  most  frequently  consulted,  before 
she  had  the  weakness  to  abandon  him.  Saint-Simon,  in 
his  Memoirs,  has  given  so  lively  an  account  of  Fenelon's 
introduction  to  the  court,  of  that  initiation  into  the  little 
private  world  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and  the  dukes  of 
Beauvilliers  and  Chevreuse,  of  the  rapid  good  fortune  of 
the  happy  prelate,  which  was  soon  followed  by  so  many 
vicissitudes  and  disgraces,  the  shipwreck  of  hopes  which 
is  to-day  a  touching  part  of  his  glory,  that  we  can  only 
refer  the  reader  to  that  great  painter,  and  it  would  be 
profanation  to  meddle  with  his  pictures,  even  when  one  be- 
lieves that  some  of  the  lines  are  too  bold  or  too  free.  Saint- 
Simon  was  endowed  with  a  double  genius,  which  is  rarely 
possessed  to  the  same  extent:  he  had  received  from  nature 
that  gift  of  penetration  and  almost  of  intuition,  the  gift 
of  reading  minds  and  hearts  through  physiognomies  and 
faces,  and  of  discerning  there  the  secret  play  of  motives 
and  intentions;  he  carried  into  that  piercing  observation 
of  the  numberless  masks  and  actors  that  crowded  around 
him  an  inspiration,  an  ardor  of  curiosity,  which  seemed 
at  times  insatiable  and  almost  cruel;  the  eager  anatomist 
is  not  more  prompt  to  open  the  still  palpitating  breast, 
and  to  search  there  in  all  directions  that  he  may  disclose 
the  hidden  disease.  To  this  first  gift  of  instinctive  and 
irresistible  penetration  Saint-Simon  joined  another,  which 
is  not  often  found  in  the  same  degree  of  potency,  and 
whose  daring  exercise  made  him  unique  in  his  line;  that 
which  he  had  plucked  out,  as  it  were,  with  that  i-avenous 
curiosity,  he  portrayed  with  the  same  fire,  with  the  same 


FEXELON.  27 

ardor,  and  almost  the  same  fury  of  description  {de  pinceau). 
La  Bruyere,  also,  has  the  faculty  of  penetrating  and  saga- 
cious observation;  he  notices,  he  lays  bare  everything  and 
every  man  about  him;  he  reads  with  subtlety  their  secrets 
on  all  the  foreheads  around  him;  then,  returning  home, 
he  leisurely,  fondly,  cunningly,  slowly  traces  hi-  portraits, 
recommences  them,  retouches  them,  polishes  them,  adds 
to  them  lineament  after  lineament,  till  he  finds  them  to 
be  perfect  resemblances.  But  it  is  not  so  with  Saint- 
Simon,  who  after  those  days  at  Versailles  or  at  Marly, 
which  I  call  debauches  of  observation  (so  many  things 
had  he  gathered  together,  that  were  wholly  diverse  and 
unlike),  returns  home  excited,  and  there,  pen  in  hand, 
and  at  full  speed,  without  resting,  without  re-reading  his 
composition,  and  very  late  in  the  night,  puts  down  all 
alive  upon  paper,  in  their  plenitude  and  their  natural 
confusion,  and  at  the  same  time  with  an  incomparable 
clearness  of  outline,  the  thousand  characters  he  has  met 
with,  the  thousand  originals  he  has  seized  flying,  whom 
he  bears  along  all  palpitating  still,  and  of  whom  the 
majority  become,  by  his  manipulation,  immortal  victims. 
Penelon  also  came  very  near  being  one  of  his  victims; 
for,  all  the  while  that  Saint-Simon  recognizes  his  charming 
and  delightful  qualities,  he  perpetually  insists  upon  a 
hidden  vein  of  ambition,  which,  possessed  to  the  degree 
that  he  supposes,  would  have  made  Fenelon  quite  a  differ- 
ent man  from  what  one  loves  to  believe  he  really  was.  In 
this  respect  we  believe  that  the  picture  of  the  great  paint- 
er, to  be  truthful,  must  be  slightly  modified,  and  that  his 
fancy  took  too  great  a  fiight.  He  did  not  penetrate  and 
dwell  at  leisure  in  all  parts  of  that  amiable  soul.  Saint- 
Simon,  through  the  dukes  of  Beauvilliers  and  Chevreuse, 


28  MONDAY-CHATS. 

knew  Fenelon  as  well  as  one  can  know  a  man  by  means 
of  his  most  intimate  friends.  He  had  seen  very  little  of 
him  personally,  and  he  tells  us  so:  "'I  knew  him  only  by 
sight,  being  too  young  when  he  was  exiled."  A  simple 
sight,  however,  was  enough  for  such  a  painter,  and  he 
caught  and  reproduced  the  charm  with  marvellous  skill. 
He  says: 

"That  prelate  was  a  tall,  lean  man,  well  made,  pale,  with  a 
great  nose,  eyes  from  which  fire  and  spirit  {esprit)  streamed  forth 
like  a  torrent,  and  a  physiognomy  wholly  unlike  any  other  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  which  could  never  be  forgotten  even  if  you  had  seen 
it  but  once.  All  expressions  were  united  in  it,  and  the  most  dis- 
similar ones  harmonized.  It  had  gravity  and  courtesy,  seriousness 
and  gaiety;  it  spoke  equally  of  the  doctor,  the  bishop,  and  the  great 
lord,  but  the  qualities  which  were  most  conspicuous  in  it,  as  well  as 
in  his  whole  person,  were  delicacy,  wit,  gracefulness,  propriety,  and, 
above  all,  nobleness.     It  required  an  effort  to  cease  to  look  at  him." 

When  one  has  once  painted  a  man  of  this  description, 
and  has  shown  him  gifted  with  this  power  of  attraction, 
one  can  never  afterward  be  accused  of  having  calumniated 
him,  even  though  he  may  have  failed  to  appreciate  some 
of  his  qualities.  Moreover,  it  is  with  Saint-Simon  that 
one  may  advantageously  combat  and  correct  Saint-Simon 
himself.  Let  any  one  read  what  he  says  so  admirably 
of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  that  cherished  pupil  of  Fenelon, 
whom  the  prelate  did  not  cease  to  guide  when  far  away 
from  him,  even  during  his  exile  at  Cambray,  by  means 
of  the  dukes  of  Beauvilliers  and  Chevreuse.  That  young 
prince,  whom  Saint-Simon  represents  to  us  as  so  haughty, 
so  fiery,  so  terribly  passionate  at  first,  and  of  whom,  so 
contemptuous  to  everybody,  he  could  say:  "From  the 
upper  heavens  he  looked  down  upon  men  as  atoms  only, 
with  whom  he  had  no  resesmblance,  whatever  they  might 


FEXELON.  29 

be;  hardly  did  his  brothers  appear  to  him  as  intermediate 
beings  between  him  and  the  human  race:'"  that  same 
prince,  on  a  certain  day,  is  changed,  transformed,  and 
becomes  a  wholly  different  man,  pious,  humane,  charitable 
as  well  as  enlightened,  attentive  to  his  duties,  fully  con- 
scious of  his  responsibility  as  future  king;  and  that  heir 
of  Lewis  XIV  dares  to  utter,  even  in  the  salon  at  Marly, 
that  saying  which  is  capable  of  making  palaces  crumble, 
that  "  a  king  is  made  for  his  subjects,  and  not  the  sub- 
jects for  the  king/'  Well,  this  prince,  thus  described  by 
Saint-Simon,  and  whose  death  draws  from  him, —  from 
him  the  inexorable  observer, —  accents  of  touching  elo- 
quence and  tears,  had  been  thus  transformed, —  by  whom? 
Let  us  leave  out  of  the  account  the  effect  due  to  all  which 
you  may  please  to  regard  as  mysterious  and  invisible 
in  these  inner  operations,  even  to  what  is  called  Grace; 
let  us  leave  out  the  part  played  by  the  venerable  duke  de 
Beauvilliers,  an  excellent  governor;  and  to  whom,  among 
human  agencies,  shall  we  ascribe  a  larger  share  in  the 
result  than  to  Fenelon,  who,  near  and  afar,  never  ceased 
directly  to  influence  his  pupil,  to  inculcate  upon  him, 
to  instill  into  his  mind  this  maxim  for  a  father  of  his 
country,  that  "  a  king  is  made  for  the  people,"  and  all 
that  follows  from  it? 

At  the  present  time,  we  know  more,  in  certain  re- 
spects, about  this  matter  than  Saint-Simon  did:  we  have 
the  confidential  letters  which  Fenelon  addressed,  during 
the  whole  time,  to  the  prince,  the  memoranda  which  he 
wrote  for  him,  the  plans  of  reform,  pieces  which  were 
then  all  kept  secret,  but  to-day  are  made  public,  and 
which,  while  allowing  us  to  leave  to  human  ambition  the 
place  which  we  must   always  give  to  every  man's  faults, 


30  MONDAY-CHATS. 

even  amid  his  virtues,  show  these  last  to  have  been,  at 
least,  of  the  first  rank,  and  place  the  patriotic  and  gener- 
ous soul  of  Fenelon  henceforth  in  the  clearest  light. 

Bossuet,  also,  in  concert  with  the  duke  of  Montausier, 
trained  a  pupil,  the    first   Dauphin,  father  of   that   same 
duke  of  Burgundy;    it  was  for  that  royal  and   unworthy 
pupil  that  he  wrote  so  many  admirable  compositions,  be- 
ginning with  the  Discourse  ujjon  Unirersal  History,  which 
posterity  will  forever  enjoy.     But,  looking  at  the  matter 
more    closely,    what    a    diff"erence    in    care    and    anxiety! 
The  first   Dauphin  was,  no   doubt,    a    poorer    subject    for 
education;  he  had  a  gentleness  that  amounted  to  apathy. 
The  duke    of  Burgundy,  with  strong   passions   and   even 
vices,  had    at   least   some   force,   and   betrayed  the  sacred 
fire    in    him.      "Lively   and   sensitive    natures,"    Fenelon 
finely   says,  "are    capable    of  terrible   excesses;   but   they 
have  also  great  resources,  and  often  come  back  after  lon<y 
wanderings  .  .  .  whilst   one   has   no   hold    upon    indolent 
natures."      Meanwhile    do   you  see  that  Bossuet,  in  order 
to  overcome  the  indolence  of  his  pupil,  and  to  rouse  his 
sensibilities,  did   nearly  the  same  thing  that  Fenelon  did, 
in  the  second  case,  to   subdue    and    humanize   the  violent 
passions  of  his  pupil?     The  first  great  man  did  his  duty 
with    amplitude    and    majesty,    as    he  was   wont,    and    he 
went  beyond  it.    The  second  multiplied  his  attentions  and 
solicitudes,  his  ingenious  and  vigilant  cares,  hi.s  insinuat- 
ing and  persuasive  addresses,  as  if  his  heart  were  bound 
up  in  his  pupiFs;   he  had  all  the  tenderne.ss  of  a  mother. 
To   return    to   the    present   volume,   I   said,  then,  that 
we  do  not  find    in    it    any  of  the  letters  which   Fenelon, 
when  he   first   came    to   the  Court,  addressed   to  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  while  she  was  still   under  the  spell.     The 


FENELON.  31 

tone  of  Fenelon's  Spiritual  Letters  is  generally  delicate,  re- 
fined, easy,  and  very  agreeable  to  soft  and  feminine  minds, 
but  a  little  tame,  and  infected  with  some  of  the  jargon 
of  quietistic  spirituality;  it  savors  too  strongly  of  the 
neighborhood  of  Madame  Guyon.  Fenelon  is  also  too 
lavish  in  them  of  expressions  designedly  infantile  and 
mincing,  such  as  Saint  Fran9ois  de  Sales  addressed  to  his 
ideal  devotee,  Philothee.  Speaking  of  certain  familiarities 
and  certain  endearments  which,  as  he  thought,  the 
Heavenly  Father  grants  to  souls  that  have  become  young 
and  simple  again,  Fenelon  will  say,  for  example:  "It  is 
necessary  to  be  a  child,  0  my  God,  and  to  play  upon 
your  knees,  in  order  to  deserve  them."  Some  theolo- 
gians have  sought  to  quarrel  with  these  expressions  and 
others  like  them,  on  doctrinal  grounds;  a  severe  good 
taste  suffices  to  proscribe  them.  And  it  is  here  that  the 
sound  and  manly  method  which  Bossuet  carried  into 
every  subject  manifests  its  complete  superiority. 

In  speaking  thus  of  Fenelon's  Letters.  I  am  aware  of 
the  exceptions  which  it  is  proper  to  make:  there  are 
some  which  are  very  fine  in  every  respect  and  some  very 
weighty  ones,  such  as  that  to  a  lady  of  quality  upon  the 
education  of  her  daughter,  and  the  Letters  upon  Religion, 
which  are  supposed  to  have  been  addressed  to  the  duke 
of  Orleans  (the  future  Regent),  and  which  are  commonly 
placed  at  the  end  of  the  treatise  On  the  Existence  of  God. 
But  I  am  speaking  of  the  Spiritual  Letters  properly  so 
called,  and  I  have  no  fear  that  those  who  shall  have 
read  a  good  number  of  them  will  contradict  me. 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  when  receiving  Fenelon's  letters, 
and  while  enjoying  their  infinite  delicacy,  estimated  them, 
nevertheless,  with  that  excellent  judgment  and  that  good 


32  MONDAY-CHATS. 

sense  which  she  applied  to  everything  that  was  not  be- 
yond her  comprehension  and  the  horizon  of  her  mind. 
She  had  doubts  about  certain  expressions  that  were  some- 
what lively  and  bold,  with  the  details  of  which  I  must 
here  dispense.  In  order  to  satisfy  her  mind,  she  consulted 
another  spiritual  guide,  a  man  of  sense,  the  bishop  of 
Chartres  (Godet  des  Marais),  and  Penelon  had  to  justify 
and  explain  himself.  In  the  explanation  which  we  read 
in  this  volume,  and  with  which  he  tries  to  reduce  these 
mystic  and  slightly  strange  expressions  to  their  just  value, 
I  am  struck  bv  a  habitual  turn  of  language  which  has 
been  already  noticed,  and  which  is  a  characteristic  trait 
of  Fenelon.  In  the  very  act  of  upholding  these  expres- 
sions, or  at  least,  while  justifying  them  by  means  of 
respectable  authorities,  he  concludes  each  paragraph  by 
saying,  by  repeating  in  all  forms:  "  A  prophet  (or  a 
saint)  had  already  said,  before  me,  something  equivalent 
or  stronger;  I  only  repeat  the  same  thing,  and  rather  less 
strongly;  but  meanwhile  I  sithni'd."'  This  refrain  of  sub- 
mission, perpetually  recurring  at  the  end  of  a  justifica- 
tion which  he  .seems  to  offer  as  victorious,  produces  at 
length  a  singular  effect,  and  at  last  puts  out  of  patience 
even  those  who  are  in  the  slightest  degree  theologians. 
I  call  that  an  irritating  meekness,  and  the  impression  one 
experiences  tends  to  confirm  the  remark  which  Joubert 
had  already  made:  "The  disposition  of  Fenelon  had  some- 
thing in  it  that  was  sweeter  than  sweetness  itself,  more 
.patient  than  patience."     This,  again,  is  a  fault. 

That  which  is  not  one,  most  certainly,  is  the  general 
character  of  his  piety,  the  piety  of  which  he  has  person- 
al experience,  and  whose  spirit  he  breathes.  He  would 
have  it  joyous,  buoyant,  sweet-tempered;  he  banishes  from 


FEXELOX.  ,33 

it  all  sadness  and  asperity:  "Piety,"  said  he,  "has  noth- 
ing in  it  that  is  weak,  or  sad,  or  constrained;  it  enlarges 
the  heart;  it  is  artless  and  lovely;  it  becomes  all  things 
to  all,  to  win  them  all."  He  reduces  almost  all  piety  to 
love,  that  is  to  say,  to  charity.  This  sweetness  of  his,  own 
however,  is  neither  weakness  nor  compliance.  In  the  little 
which  is  given  us  here  of  his  counsels  to  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  he  shows  that  he  knows  how  to  put  his  finger 
upon  the  essential  faults,  upon  that  self-love  which  would 
take  the  lead  in  anything,  that  enslavement  to  respect- 
ability, that  ambition  to  appear  perfect  in  the  eyes  of 
good  people,  in  fine  all  the  essential  qualities  of  that 
prudent  and  glorious  nature.  There  is,  besides,  in  the 
mass  of  Fenelon's  Spiritual  Letters,  a  certain  variety  by 
which  he  adapts  himself  to  difierent  persons,  and  there 
must  certainlv  have  been  a  similar  varietv  in  his  conver- 
sation.  The  Conversations  which  Ramsay  has  transmitted 
to  us,  in  which  Fenelon  sets  forth  the  reasons  which,  as 
he  thinks,  should  victoriously  lead  every  deist  to  the  Cath- 
olic faith,  have  a  breadth,  a  simple  beauty,  a  copious  and 
luminous  eloquence,  which  leave  nothing  to  desire.  Just 
as  the  conversation  of  Pascal  and  M.  de  Saci,  which  has 
been  preserved  for  us.  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  proofs 
of  the  genius  of  Pascal,  so  these  Conversations  transmitted 
by  Ramsay  give  us  the  highest  idea  of  Fenelon's  manner, 
and  surpass  in  breadth  of  tone  even  the  majority  of  his 
letters. 

The  most  interesting  part  of  the  volume  now  published 
is  composed  of  a  series  of  familiar  letters  addressed  by 
Fenelon  to  one  of  his  friends,  a  meritorious  military  man, 
the  chevalier  Destouches.  Every  eminent  person  that 
passed  through  Cambray  (and  nearly  the  whole  array  passed 


34  >IOX]J  AY -CHATS. 

through  it  at  each  campaign,  during  those  wars  m  the 
last  3'ears  of  Lewis  XIV),  saw  Fenelon,  and  was  enter- 
tained by  him;  and  owing  to  that  peculiar  attraction  of 
his,  more  than  one  lasting  intimacy  Avas  contracted  by  liiiu 
with  these  jDassing  acquaintances.  That  which  he  had  with 
the  chevalier  Destouches  was  one  of  the  closest  and  ten- 
derest.  Destouches,  then  forty- three  years  old,  was  serving 
with  distinction  in  the  artillery:  he  was  an  intellectual, 
cultivated  man,  and  keenly  relished  Virgil.  "With  all  that, 
he  was  dissipated,  abandoned  to  pleasure,  to  that  of  the 
table,  which  was  not  his  only  fault;  and  we  are  obliged  to 
confess  that  his  acquaintance  with  Fenelon  never  led  to 
his  thorough  conversion,  since  it  is  he  who  is  supposed  to 
have  been  the  father  of  D'Alembert,  whom  he  might  have 
had  by  Madame  de  Tencin  in  1717.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Fenelon  loved  him,  and  this  one  word  redeemed  all.  The 
amiable  prelate  told  him  so  in  all  ways,  while  scolding 
him  and  chiding  him,  and  even  while  plainly  seeing  that 
he  was  meeting  with  little  success.  He  wrote  to  him  one 
day  (April,  1714): 

"If  you  were  to  go  and  show  my  letter  to  some  grave  and  se- 
vere censor,  he  would  be  sure  to  say :  '  Why  does  that  old  bishop 
(Fenelon  was  then  sixty-three  years  old)  love  so  deeply  a  man  who 
is  profane?'  That  is  a  great  scandal,  I  confess;  but  how  shall  I 
reform?  The  truth  is,  I  find  two  men  in  you;  you  are  double  like 
Sosia,  without  any  duplicity  for  purposes  of  trickery;  on  one  side, 
you  are  bad  for  yourself;  on  the  other,  you  are  true,  upright,  noble, 
everything  to  your  friends.  I  conclude  with  a  protest  drawn  from 
your  friend  Pliny  the  Younger:  Neque  enim  amove  decipior/'' 

That  is  to  say:  "Affection  does  not  blind  ine;  it  is 
true  I  love  to  excess,  but  I  still  judge  my  friends,  and 
with  tlie  more  penetration  the  more  I  love." 

Tliis  correspondence  of  Fenelon  with  the  chevalier  Des- 


FEXELO.V.  o5 

touches  shows  us  the  prelate  even  in  those  saddest  years 
(1711-1714)  recreating  himself  at  times  with  innocent 
jesting,  like  Laelius  and  Scipio,  after  having  removed  his 
girdle.  He  seems  to  have  proposed  a  wager  in  this  cor- 
respondence; he  seems  to  have  said  to  his  somewhat  lib- 
ertine friend:  "You  like  Virgil;  you  frequently  quote 
him;  well,  I  send  you  back  to  Horace;  I  wish,  to  beat 
you,  no  other  auxiliary  than  he,  and  I  pledge  myself  to 
instill  into  you  almost  all  the  counsels  that  are  suited  to 
your  case,  or,  at  least,  all  the  counsels  that  are  useful  in 
life,  by  disguising  them  in  verses  of  Horace."  Horace, 
indeed,  reappears  in  eveiy  line  of  these  letters,  and  it  is 
as  often  he  that  speaks  as  Fenelon.  These  letters  give  a 
perfect  idea  of  what  that  conversation,  the  most  charming 
and  the  most  refined,  must  have  been  in  the  sweet  hours 
of  gaiety  and  enjoyment;  the}''  are  the  table-talk  and  the 
"  after-dinners  "  of  Fenelon,  the  liveliest  things  in  a  sub- 
dued tone.  We  perceive  in  them  the  habits  of  thought 
and  feeling,  and  the  precise  accent  of  that  fine  nature,  as 
if  we  were  present.  Destouches  had  sent  some  Latin  epi- 
taphs to  the  prelate:  "The  epitaphs,"  replies  Fenelon, 
"have  much  significance,  every  line  is  an  epigram;  they 
are  historic  and  curious.  Those  who  made  them  had  much 
wit;  but  they  wanted  to  have  it;  one  should  have  it  only 
inadvertently,  and  without  thinking  of  it.  They  are  com- 
posed in  the  spirit  of  Tacitus,  wdiich  searches  for  what  is 
bad."'  Further  on,  after  having  quoted  some  strophes  of 
Horace  upon  peace,  Fenelon  chances  to  recall  a  stanza  of 
Malherbe:  "That  is  the  ancient  style,"  he  says,  "which 
is  simple,  graceful,  exquisite,  here  is  the  modern,  ichich 
has  its  heaiifjj.'''  How  well  that  is  said!  how  well  is  the 
proportion,  the  gradation  from  the  modern  to  the  ancient, 


36  MONDAY-CHATS. 

preserved,  and  how  decidedly  does  one  feel  that,  he  prefers 
the  ancient!  Serious  and  touching  thoughts  sometimes 
intersperse  these  plays  of  the  mind.  The  year  1811  was 
big  with  interest  to  Fenelon.  The  tirst  Dauphin  died  on 
the  fourteenth  of  April,  and  the  duke  of  Burgundy  became 
the  next  heir,  and,  according  to  all  appearance,  was  very 
near  to  the  throne.  One  would  have  said  that  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  exile  at  Cambray  Fenelon  enjoyed  the  full 
radiance  of  the  Court,  and  that  he  already  reigned  by  the 
side  of  his  royal  pupil.  Consulted  in  writing  upon  every 
political  or  ecclesiastical  matter,  often  secretly  heard  as 
arbiter  in  the  Jansenist  disputes,  become  again  a  doctor 
and  an  oracle,  he  played  already  the  chief  role  in  his  turn. 
But  suddenly  misfortunes  begin  to  befall  him;  the  duch- 
ess of  Burgundy  dies  on  the  twelfth  of  February,  1712; 
the  duke  of  Burgundy  follows  her  on  the  eighteenth,  six 
days  afterward,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine;  and  all  the 
hopes,  all  the  tendernesses,  shall  we  dare  say  the  secret 
aspirations,  of  the  prelate,  vanish.  We  see  traces  of  his 
profound  grief  even  in  this  jesting  correspondence;  but 
how  simple  and  true  the  words  are,  and  how  utterly  they 
reject  every  malicious  thought!  Learning  of  the  death 
of  the  princess,  which  so  little  preceded  that  of  his  pupil, 
Fenelon  wrote  to  Destouches  (February  18): 

"The  sad  news  that  has  reached  us  from  your  regrion,  Mon- 
sieur, robs  me  of  all  the  joy  which  was  the  soul  of  our  intercourse: 
Qn\s  desiderio  sit  j»idor.  .  .  .  Truly  the  loss  is  very  great  to  the 
Court  and  to  the  whole  kingdom.  One  must  be  greatly  pained  for 
those  who  lament  her  with  so  just  a  gnet.  ( JVhot  a  delicate  way 
of  md'xcatxntj  his  fears  with  regard  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy!)  You 
see  how  frail  life  is.  Four  days;  they  are  not  sure!  F,verybody 
puts  on  a  wise  look,  as  if  he  were  immortal:  the  world  is  but  a 
crowd  of  living  people,  who  are  feeble,  false,  and  ready  to  rot;  the 
most  shining  fortune  is  but  a  pleasing  dream." 


FENELOX.  37 

These  are  not  the  loud  accents  of  Bossuet,  the  broad  Haps 
of  his  wing,  as  he  cries  from  the  top  ot  the  pulpit:  Madauu' 
is  dyiiiy!  Madame  h  de<td!  But,  with  less  edat  and 
thunder,  is  not  this  as  eloquent  and  as  penetrating? 

On  hearing  of  the  death  of  the  duke  of  Bui-gundy,  Fene- 
lon  has  but  a  word;  it  is  brief  and  heart-felt;  it  is  what  it 
should  be:  "God  knows  I  sutler;  but  I  have  not  fallen 
sick,  and  that  is  a  good  deal  for  me.  Your  heart,  which 
makes  itself  felt  by  mine,  soothes  it.  I  should  have  been 
deeply  pained  to  see  you  here;  think  of  your  bad  health; 
it  seems  to  vie  that  all  that  I  love  is  going  to  die.""  To 
write  thus  to  the  chevalier  Destouches  amid  such  grief, 
was  to  honor  him  very  highly. 

The  mundane  rebound  of  this  cruel  loss  was  keenly  felt 
by  Fenelon.  The  day  before,  he  was  the  man  of  the  future 
reign  and  of  the  highest  e.xpectations;  to-day,  he  is  nothing, 
his  dream  has  dissolved,  and,  if  he  could  forget  this  for  an 
instant,  the  world  is  immediately  at  his  side  to  tell  him 
of  it.  An  eminent  man,  a  friend  of  Destouches,  had  offered 
his  daughter  to  one  of  Fenelon's  nephews;  the  day  after 
the  death  of  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  this  man  retracts  and 
withdraws  his  promise.  Fenelon  is  not  astonished  at  this; 
he  casts  no  blame  upon  that  father  so  anxious  for  the  safe 
marriage  of  his  daughter;  he  praises  him,  and  even  thanks 
him  for  the  blamelessness  of  his  conduct.  He  writes  to 
Destouches: 

"With  regard  to  your  friend,  1  conjure  you  to  cherish  no  ill 
will  toward  hira  on  account  of  his  chang-e;  his  wrong -doing  con- 
sists at  most  in  having  expected  too  much  from  a  frail  and  uncer- 
tam  support;  it  is  upon  such  uncertain  hopes  that  i\v  worldly 
wise  are  wont  to  hazard  certain  schemes.  He  who  cannot  pardon 
men  for  such  things  must  become  misanthropic:  we  must,  for 
ourselves,  avoid  such  rocks  in  lite,  and  we  must  readily  pardon 
them  in  the  case  of  our  neighbor." 

427420 


38  MOXDAY-rHATS. 

Admirable  and  serene,  or,  at  least,  tranquil  disposition, 
which  peeps  out  m  more  than  one  place  in  this  corre- 
spondence! Fenelon  knew  the  world  and  men  profoundly, 
he  has  no  illusions  in  regard  to  them.  Was  a  tender  heart 
like  his  to  have,  then,  nothing  more  to  learn  in  the  way 
of  disgusts  and  bitternesses?  But  he  is  not,  for  all  this, 
misanthropic,  and  if  he  ever  were  so,  he  would  have  a 
way  of  being  so  which  would  not  resemble  anybody's 
else.      He  writes  to  Destouches: 

"  I  am  very  glad,  my  dear  good  fellow,  that  you  are  pleased 
with  one  of  my  letters  which  has  been  shown  to  you.  You  are 
nght  in  saying  and  believing  that  I  ask  little  of  men  m  general; 
I  try  to  do  much  for  them,  and  to  expect  nothing  in  return.  I 
find  a  decided  advantage  in  these  terms;  on  these  terms  I  defy 
them  to  disappoint  me.  It  is  only  upon  a  very  small  number  of 
true  friends  that  I  count,  and  I  do  it  not  from  motives  of  interest, 
but  from  pure  esteem;  not  from  a  desire  to  derive  any  advantage 
from  them,  but  to  do  them  justice  in  not  cUstrusting  their  affec- 
tion. I  would  like  to  oblige  the  whole  human  race,  especially 
virtuous  people;  but  there  is  scarcely  anybody  to  whom  1  would 
like  to  be  under  obUgation.  Is  it  through  haughtiness  and  pride 
that  I  think  thus?  Nothing  could  be  more  foolish  and  more 
unbecoming;  but  I  have  learned  to  know  men  as  I  have  grown 
old,  and  I  beheve  that  it  is  the  best  way  to  do  without  them  with- 
out pretending  to  superior  wisdom."  "I  have  pitied  men,"  he 
says  again,  "  although  they  are  seldom  good." 

This  rarity  of  good  men,  which  appears  to  him  to  be 
the  shame  of  the  human  race,  led  him  to  love  his  chosen 
friends  all  the  more:  "The  comparison  only  makcb  us 
too  highly  prize  those  persons  who  are  true,  gentle,  trust- 
worthy, reasonable,  susceptible  of  friendship,  and  superior 
to  all  self-interest."  Once  only  is  he  caught  betraying 
a  curious  mind;  it  is  concerning  prince  Eugene,  in  whom 
he  thinks  he  perceives  a  truly  great  man.  He  confesses 
that  it  would  be  curious  to  know  and  to  observe  him: 


FENELOM".  39 

"His  militaiy  deeds  are  great;  but  what  I  esteem  most  m 
him  IS  qualities  in  which  what  is  called  fortune  has  no  part  1 
am  assured  that  he  is  true,  free  from  ostentation  and  from  pride, 
ready  to  hear  without  prejudice,  and  to  reply  in  precise  terms. 
He  steals  moments  for  reading,  he  loves  merit,  he  adapts  himself 
to  all  nationalities,  he  inspires  confidence;  that  is  the  man  whom 
you  are  going  to  see.  I  also  would  like  well  to  see  him  in  our 
Low  Countries;  I  confess  I  have  some  curiosity  concerning  liiui, 
although  I  have  little  left  for  the  human  race." 

The  death  of  the  duke  of  Beauvilliers  (August  31,  1714,) 
finished  breaking  the  last  clo^e  ties  that  attached  Fenelon 
to  the  future:  "True  friends,"  he  wrote  on  that  occasion 
to  Destouches,  "  make  all  the  sweetness  and  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  life."  It  was  to  Destouches  also  that  he  wrote 
that  admirable  letter,  already  cited  by  ^1.  de  Bausset, 
upon  the  desirability  "  of  all  good  friends  having  an 
understanding  to  die  together  on  the  same  day,"  and  he 
cites  thereupon  Philemon  and  Baucis;  so  true  is  it  that 
there  is  a  real  affinity,  and  not  one  of  which  we  have 
dreamed,  between  the  soul  of  Fenelon  and  that  of  La 
Fontaine. 

This  is  enough  to  indicate  the  interest    of  these    new 

letters.     Some   further  details    might    be    found    there  of 

Fenelon's  last  year.     The  peace  which  had  just  been  signed 

imposed  new  duties  upon  him.    He  writes  to  Destouches: 

"That  which  ends  your  labors,  begins  imne;  the  peace  which 
restores  your  liberty,  takes  mine  away;  I  have  to  visit  seven  hun- 
dred and  sixty-four  villages.  You  will  not  be  surprised  that  I 
wjsh  to  do  my  duty,— you,  whom  1  have  seen  so  scrupulous  about 
yours,  m  spite  of  your  misfortunes  and  your  wound." 

Six  weeks  before  his  death,  in  one  of  his  pastoral  visits, 
his  carriage  had  upset,  and  he  had  come  near  being  killed; 
he  tells  the  story  very  pleasantly: 

"A  very  long  absence  has  delayed  the  reply  I  owe  you.  It  is 
true,  dear  man,  that  I  was  in  the  greatest  danger  of  being  killed; 


40  MONDAY-CHATS. 

I  have  still  to  learn  how  I  was  saved;  never  was  one  happier  in 
losing  three  horses.  All  my  people  cried  ont  to  me:  'All  is  lost! 
save  yourself!'  I  did  not  hear  them;  the  glass  windows  were 
raised.  I  was  reading  a  book,  having  my  glasses  upon  my  nose, 
my  pencil  in  hand,  and  my  legs  in  a  bear-skin  sack;  such  nearly 
was  the  position  of  Archimedes,  when  he  perished  at  the  capture  of 
Syracuse.    The  comparison  is  idle,  but  the  accident  was  frightful." 

He  enters  into  the  detail  of  the  accident:  a  mill-wheel, 
which  suddenly  began  turning  at  the  end  of  a  bridge 
without  railings,  one  of  the  horses  frightened  and  jumping 
headlong,  etc.  Even  to  the  last,  in  spite  of  his  mental 
sorrows,  and  though  he  had  been  heart-sick  ever  since 
the  loss  of  his  cherished  pupil,  Fenelon  could  smile,  and 
that  without  great  effort.  He  has  that  light-hearted  gaiety 
which  is  neither  dissipation  nor  a  lie,  and  which,  in  him, 
is  but  the  natural  expression  of  a  chaste,  even,  temperate 
soul;  he  has  that  joy  of  which  he  has  said  so  well  that 
"  frugality,  health  and  innocence  are  its  true  sources.'' 
In  his  last  letter  of  December  1,  1714  (that  is  to  say, 
a  month  before  falling  ill  with  his  final  sickness),  he 
jested  still  with  Destouches  upon  the  preftij  repasts  in 
which  the  chevalier  indulged,  at  the  risk  of  repenting  of 
them:  "It  is  at  Cambray,"  he  says,  "that  one  is  sober, 
healthy,  light-hearted,  content  and  gay  by  rule."'  The 
general  tone  of  these  friendly  letters  is  marked  by  these 
very  words.  In  reading  this  familiar  correspondence,  I 
find  again,  as  in  everything  of  Fenelon's,  a  certain  blending 
of  the  gay,  the  concise,  the  lively,  the  smooth,  the  easy, 
the  insinuating  and  the  enchanting. 

Among  the  pleasantries  we  meet  with  in  these  letters, 
there  are  some  which  relate  to  the  dispute  about  the 
Ancients  and  the  Moderns  which  was  then  raging  in  the 
Academy,  and  which  was  rekindled  anew  at  the  very  time 


KKXELON.  41 

when  peace  was  made  in  Europe.  La  Motte,  a  friend  of 
the  chevalier  Destouches,  had  just  translated,  or  traves- 
tied, Homer's  Iliad,  and  he  sent  it  to  Fenelon,  to  ask  his 
opinion  of  it.  Fenelon  on  this  occasion  was  a  little  weak. 
Invoked  as  judge  and  as  arbiter  between  the  two  parties, 
he  evaded.  He  thought  that  in  these  matters  which  do 
not  concern  the  safety  of  the  State,  one  may  be  more 
accommodating  than  in  others,  and  incline  toward  polite- 
ness. He  replies  to  La  Motte  with  compliments  and 
praises,  without  wishing  to  decide  upon  the  substantial 
merits  of  the  work;  he  gets  out  of  the  difficulty  by  means 
of  a  verse  from  Vii-gil,  which  leaves  the  contest  unde- 
cided between  two  shepherds:  Et  vitula  tii  clignus,  et 
liir.  .  .  .  The  contest  undecided  between  La  Motte  and 
Homer!  And  it  is  Fenelon,  the  translator,  the  continuer 
of  the  Odyssey,  the  father  of  Telemachus,  who  speaks  thus! 
Is  it  really  possible  to  carry  toleration  to  this  point? 
Evidently  Fenelon  had  not  that  irritability  of  good  sense 
and  of  reason  which  makes  one  say  Xo  vehemently,  that 
straightforward  and  prompt  faculty,  and  even  a  little 
blunt  too,  which  Despreaux  manifested  in  literature,  and 
Bossuet  in  theology.     We  find  here,  again,  a  weak  side. 

To  each  one  his  glory  and  his  obscurity.  We  may 
catch  Fenelon  at  fault  on  several  points.  Bossuet,  in 
theology,  pushed  him  rudel}'.  I  find  him  equally  refuted, 
and  forcibly  rebuked,  in  respect  to  his  Dialogues  upon 
Eloquence  and  some  bold  assertions  concerning  the  ancient 
orators,  by  a  well-informed  man,  a  severe  and  by  no 
means  contemptible  mind,  that  is  equally  opposed  to  Rol- 
lin  and  to  Gibert.  But  what  matter,  to-day,  a  few  inac- 
curacies?     Fenelon    had    the  spii-it   of   piety,  and    he    had 

the  spirit  of  antiquit3^      He  unites    in  himself  these  two 
2* 


42  :.10XI)AY-«'HATS. 

spirits,  or  rather  he  possesses  and  holds  them  each  in  its 
sphere,  without  contention,  without  a  struggle,  without 
placing  them  in  conflict,  without  letting  anything  apprise 
us  of  the  discord,  and  that  is  a  great  charm.  With  him 
the  contest  between  Christianity  and  Greece  does  not  ex- 
ist, and  Telemachus  is  the  only  monument  of  that  happy 
and  almost  impassible  harmony. 

Telemachus  (how  can  one  aA^oid  saying  a  word  of  it  in 
speaking  of  Fenelon?)  is  not  purely  ancient  in  its  style. 
A  reproduction  of  the  purely  ancient  style  to-day,  would 
be  more  or  less  of  a  cop}^  and  an  imitation.  We  have 
had,  within  a  short  time,  some  striking  samples  of  that 
style,  elaborated  and  reproduced  with  feeling  and  skill. 
Telemachus  is  something  diflPerent,  something  much  more 
natural  and  more  original  in  its  very  imitation.  It  is 
the  antique  recovered  naturally  and  without  effort  by  a 
modern  genius,  by  a  christian  heart,  which,  nourished  by 
the  Homeric  language,  remembers  it  freely,  and  draws 
from  it  as  from  the  fountain;  l)ut  he  insensibl}^  remoulds 
and  transforms  it,  as  he  recollects  it.  This  beauty,  thus 
diverted,  softened  and  not  changed,  runs  in  Fenelon's 
work,  in  a  full  channel,  and  overflows  like  a  copious  and 
flowing  stream,  a  stream  ever  sacred,  which  adapts  itself 
to  its  new  declivities  and  its  new  banks.  There  is  but 
one  thing  to  lie  done,  in  order  to  appreciate  Telemachus 
properly;  forget,  if  you  can.  that  you  read  it  too  much 
in  your  childhood.  1  had  that  happiness  last  year;  I  had, 
as  it  were,  forgotten  TelemacJius,  and  T  have  been  able  to 
read  it  again  with  the  freshness  of  a  novolty. 

As  a  literary  man,  Fenelon  has  been  greatly  praised, 
and  many  attempts  have  been  made  to  characterize  him; 
but    nowhere,    in    my  judgment,    has    he    been    described 


FENELON.  43 

with  a  happier  delicacy  of  expression  or  with  a  more 
striking  truthfulness  than  in  the  following  passage,  which 
has  reference  to  his  style  as  well  as  to  his  person:  "It 
is  not  transports  which  he  makes  us  experience,  but  a 
succession  of  peaceful  and  ineffable  sentiments;  there  was 
in  his  discourse  an  indefinable  tranquil  harmony,  an  in- 
definable pleasing  slowness,  an  indefinable  prolongation 
of  charms,  which  no  language  can  describe."  It  is  Chactas 
who  says  that  in  Les  Nafehez.  It  is  very  singular  that 
such  a  speech  should  be  found  on  the  lips  of  an  Amer- 
ican savage,  but  it  is  none  the  less  beautiful  and  perfect 
for  that,  and  worthy  of  being  inscribed  at  the  end  of 
Fenelon's  pages. 

April  1,  1850. 


BOSSUET. 


^T^HE  glory  of  Bossnet  has  become  one  of  the  religions 
-*-  of  France;  we  recognize  it,  we  proclaim  it,  we  honor 
ourselves  by  paying  to  it  daily  a  new  tribute,  by  finding 
new  reasons  for  its  existence  and  for  its  increase;  we  no 
longer  discuss  it.  It  is  the  privilege  of  true  greatness  to 
become  more  conspicuous  in  proportion  as  one  draws 
away  from  it,  and  to  command  attention  at  a  distance. 
What  is  singular,  however,  in  this  fortune  and  in  this 
kind  of  apotheosis  of  Bossuet,  is  that  lie  becomes  thus 
greater  and  greater  to  us,  while,  for  all  that,  we  do  not 
necessarily  admit  that  he  was  right  in  some  of  the  most 
important  controversies  in  which  he  was  engaged  You 
love  Fenelon,  you  cherish  his  graces,  his  noble  and  fine 
insinuation,  his  chaste  elegances;  you  could  easily  pardon 
him  what  are  called  his  errors;  and  Bossuet  has  combat- 
ed those  errors,  not  only  forcibly,  but  furiously,  with  a 
kind  of  roughness.  No  matter!  the  loud  voice  of  the  ad- 
versary transports  you  in  spite  of  yourself,  and  compels 
you  to  bow  your  head,  without  regard  to  your  secret  af- 
fection for  him  whom  he  beats  down.  So  with  the  long 
and  obstinate  pitched  battles  which  have  been  fought  upon 
the  Galilean  question.  Are  you  a  Galilean,  or  are  you  not? 
According  to  your  belief,  you  applaud  or  you  heave  a 
sigh  at  this  part  of  his  career,  but  his  illustrious  course 
none  the  less,  as  a  whole,  maintains  in  your  eyes  its  ele- 


BORSFET.  45 

\''ation  and  its  majesty.  I  shall  dare  to  say  the  same  thing 
of  the  war  without  truce  which  Bossuet  waged  against 
Protestantism  in  all  its  forms.  Every  enlightened  Prot- 
estant, while  reserving  the  historic  points,  will  acknowl- 
edge with  respect  that  he  has  never  encountered  two 
such  adversaries.  In  politics  also,  though  one  may  not 
be  very  partial  to  the  sacred  theory  and  to  divine  right, 
as  Bossuet  revives  and  establishes  it,  one  would  be  almost 
sorry  if  that  doctrine  had  not  found  so  plain,  so  manly, 
so  sincere  a  spokesman,  and  one,  too,  so  naturally  con- 
vinced of  its  truth.  A  God,  a  Christ,  a  bishop,  a  king, — 
here,  in  its  entirety,  is  the  luminous  sphere  in  which  the 
thought  of  Bossuet  expands  and  reigns;  this  is  his  ideal 
of  the  world.  So,  that,  there  was  in  antiquity  a  people 
set  apart,  who,  under  the  inspiration  and  leadership  of 
Moses,  kept  clear  and  distinct  the  idea  of  a  creative  and 
ever-present  God,  directly  governing  the  world,  while  all 
the  surrounding  peoples  strayed  away  from  that  idea, 
which  was  obscure  to  them,  into  the  mists  of  fancy,  or 
smothered  it  under  the  phantoms  of  the  imagination  and 
drowned  it  in  the  exuberant  luxury  of  nature, —  this 
simple  idea  of  order,  of  authority,  of  unity,  of  the  con- 
tinual government  of  Providence,  Bossuet  among  the 
moderns  has  grasped  more  completely  than  any  other 
person,  and  he  applies  it  on  all  occasions  without  effort, 
and,  as  it  were,  by  an  invincible  deduction.  Bossuet's  is 
the  Hebrew  genius  extended,  fecundated  by  Christianity, 
•and  open  to  all  the  acquisitions  of  the  understanding,  but 
retaining  some  degree  of  sovereign  interdiction,  and  closing 
its  vast  horizon  preciselj^  where  its  light  ceases.  In  gest- 
ure and  tone  he  reminds  one  of  Moses:  in  his  speech 
there  are  mingled  some  of  the  expressions  of  the  Prophet- 


46  MONDAY-CHATS. 

King, —  bursts  of  intense  and  sublime  pathos;  it  is  a  voice 
preeminently  eloquent, —  the  sim^Dlest,  the  strongest,  the 
bluntest,  the  most  familiar, —  one  that  thunders  with  a 
peculiar  suddenness.  Even  when  he  rolls  along  with  an 
unbending  current  and  an  imperious  flood,  his  eloquence 
carries  with  it  treasures  of  an  eternal  human  morality. 
It  is  in  all  these  qualities  that  we  regard  him  as  unpar- 
alleled, and  whatever  the  use  he  makes  of  his  speech,  he 
remains  the  model  of  the  highest  eloquence  and  of  the 
most  beautiful  language. 

These  truths  are  no  longer  novel:  how  many  times 
have  we  heard  them!  The  two  works  we  announce  do 
no  more  than  set  forth  and  develop  them,  each  in  its 
own  way.  M.  de  Lamartine  has  traced  in  the  first  pages 
of  his  study  a  portrait  of  Bossuet  thus  grandly  conceived. 
M.  Poujoulat,  in  a  series  of  Letters  addressed  to  a  foreign 
politician,  tries  to  show  that  Bossuet  is  not  only  great  in 
the  celebrated  works  of  his  which  one  commonly  reads, 
but  that  he  is  the  same  man  and  the  same  genius  in  his 
entire  habit  of  thought,  and  in  the  mass  of  his  produc- 
tions. A  conscientious  writer,  accustomed  to  historical 
labors,  to  those  which  touch  upon  the  history  of  religion 
in  particular,  M.  Poujoulat  writes  with  a  pen  that  is 
as  grave  as  the  thought.*  He  states  that  he  has  re-read 
in  the  country  the  works  of  Bossuet,  and  that  he  has 
taken  pleasure,  after  each  reading,  in  gathering  his  re- 
flections in  the  form  of  letters  to  a  friend:  one  may 
profitably  run  over  with  him  the  series  of  Sermons  and 
Theological  Treatises,  which  all  contain  such  real  beauties. 
His  work  inspires  esteem.     To  comment  on  Bossuet  is,  in 

Letlres  snr  Bossuet  a  lai  Homme  d' fJtat,  par  M.  Poujoulat,  1854.    Por- 
trait de  Bossuet,  par  M.  de  Lamartine,  1854. 


BOSSUET.  47 

the  long  run,  a  difficult  and  even  dangerous  task;  the 
citations  which  one  makes  speak  for  themselves,  and  light 
up  certain  pages  to  such  an  extent  as  to  dim  everything 
that  adjoins  them.  M.  Poujoulat  has  very  happily  es- 
caped this  danger  by  a  great  fidelity  in  exposition,  and 
by  a  sincerity  of  belief  which  has  permitted  him  to  enter 
into  the  discussion  of  principles.  Discussion,  perhaps,  is  a 
good  deal  to  say;  it  is  not  necessary,  at  least,  to  under- 
stand it  in  a  historic  or  philosophic  sense;  it  is  evident 
that  upon  a  multitude  of  points  which  give  occasion  for 
it,  M.  Poujoulat  writes  with  all  the  confidence  and  all 
the  security  of  French  convictions,  which  do  not  suffi- 
ciently suspect  the  nature  and  the  force  of  the  objections 
put  forth  by  a  more  independent  and  more  extensive 
critical  science.  But  morally  he  I'egains  his  superiority; 
he  labors  constantly  to  render  his  commentary  useful  by 
applying  it  to  our  own  times,  to  ourselves,  to  the  vices 
of  society,  and  to  the  disease  of  our  hearts:  "  Bossuet  is 
especially  the  man  of  the  age  we  live  in,"'  he  thinks;  and 
he  gives  the  reasons  for  this  opinion,  which  are  rather 
honorable  desires  on  his  part,  than  facts  manifest  to  all. 
It  would  be  easy  here  to  bring  him  into  conflict  with 
M.  de  Lamartine,  who,  all  the  while  that  he  admires  Bos- 
suet. is  of  a  contrary  opinion;  but  I  may  be  permitted 
rather  to  turn  aside  some  time  from  the  commentators 
and  the  jDainters,  that  I  may  go  straight  to  the  master. 
Upon  Bossuet  there  is  a  work  still  to  be  done,  a  work 
which  will  exhaust  all  that  may  be  positively  and  pre- 
cisely known  of  him.  M.  de  Bausset,  forty  years  ago, 
gave  an  agreeable  History  of  Bossuet,  rich  even  in  details, 
and  which,  in  certain  respects,  will  not  be  improved;  but, 
in  many  passages  there  is  room  for  further  researches,  and 


48  ilONDAY-CHATS. 

for  the  investigations  which  distinguished  men  of  letters 
and  academicians  then  willingly  spared  themselves.  To 
these  investigations  and  researches,  at  once  pious  and 
indefatigable,  a  scholar  of  our  day,  M.  Floquet,  has  de- 
voted himself  for  several  years,  and  the  History  of  Bos- 
suet  which  will  result  from  them,  will  soon  appear.  This 
will  be  a  solid  and  final  ])asis  for  the  study  and  admira- 
tion of  the  great  man.  Meanwhile  I  have  under  my 
eyes  an  exceedingly  commendable  work  of  a  young  man 
of  merit,  who  died  a  short  time  ago.  The  abbe  Victor 
Vaillant,  having  to  give  in  to  the  Paris  Faculty  of  Let- 
tres,  in  1851,  his  thesis  as  doctor,  chose  for  his  theme,  A 
Stiidij  on  the  Sermons  of  Bossuet  according  to  the  manu- 
scripts. He  showed  that  those  sermons,  so  well  appreci- 
ated by  the  Abbe  Maury  at  the  first  moment  of  their 
publication  (1772),  had  not  been  given  to  the  public  then, 
nor  reprinted  since,  with  all  the  exactness  which  might 
have  been  demanded.  Criticising  the  fii'st  editor,  Dom 
Deforis,  with  an  extreme  severity,  repeated  and  in  part 
imitated  by  that  of  M.  Cousin  toward  the  first  editors 
of  Pascal's  Thoughts,  the  Abbe  Vaillant  applied  himself 
afterward  to  something  more  useful,  that  is  to  say,  to 
discovering  the  chronological  order  of  Bossuet's  Sermons 
and  Panegyrics;  looking  into  the  matter  closely,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  determining  the  dates  of  a  good  number  of  them, 
at  least  approximatively.  From  to-day,  then,  we  may 
study  Bossuet  confidently,  in  his  first  manner;  we  are 
able,  as  in  the  case  of  the  great  Corneille,  to  follow  the 
progress  and  the  march  of  that  genius  which  went  on 
magnifying  and  perfecting  itself,  but  whicli  had  no  de- 
cline or  decay.  I  will  try  to  give  an  idea  of  that  first 
manner  by  some  examples. 


BOSSUET.  49 

Bossuet,  born  at  Dijon  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  Sep- 
tember, 1627,  of  a  good  and  ancient  plebeian  family  of 
magistrates  and  parliamentarians,  was  reared  there  in  the 
midst  of  books  and  in  the  family  library.  His  father, 
who  had  entered  the  Parliament  of  Metz,  lately  created,  as 
dean  of  the  councillors,  left  his  children  in  the  care  of  a 
brother  who  was  a  councillor  in  the  Parliament  of  Di- 
jon. Young  Bossuet,  who  remained  in  his  uncle's  house, 
was  educated  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  the  city.  He  dis- 
tinguished himself  early  by  a  surprising  capacity  of  mem- 
ory and  of  understanding;  he  knew  Virgil  by  heart,  as, 
a  little  later,  he  knew  Homer.  "  One  comprehends  less 
easily,"  says  M.  de  Lamartine,  "  how  he  teas  infatuated  all 
his  life  with  the  Latin  poet  Horace,  an  exquisite  but  refined 
genius,  the  cords  of  whose  lyre  are  only  the  softest  fibres 
of  the  heart;  an  indolent  voluptuary,"  etc.  M.  de  La- 
martine, who  has  so  well  pei'ceived  the  leading  qualities 
of  Bossuet's  eloquence  and  talent,  has  studied  his  life  a 
little  too  lightly,  and  has  here  supposed  a  difficulty  which 
does  not  exist;  in  fact,  there  is  no  mention  anywhere  of 
that  inexplicable  predilection  of  Bossuet  for  Horace,  the 
least  divine  of  all  the  poets.  M.  de  Lamartine  must  have 
inadvertently  read  Horace  instead  of  Homer,  and  he  has 
taken  occasion  to  treat  Homer,  the  friend  of  good  sense, 
almost  as  badly  as  he  formerly  treated  La  Fontaine.*  It 
was  Fenelon  (and  not  Bossuet),  who  read  and  relished 
Horace,  more  than  any  other  poet,  who  knew  him  by 
heart,  who  quoted  him  incessantly,  who.  in  his  correspond- 

*  M.  de  Lamartine,  let  us  say  it  once  for  all,  is  so  careless  in  regard  to 
such  matters  of  fact,  he  possesses  in  so  high  a  degree  the  gift  of  inaccuracy, 
that  he  has  been  able,  in  enumerating  the  friends  of  Bossuet.  in  his  final 
article  {ConstilutionneU  April  25,  1854),  to  write  freely:  '•Pellisson.  precursor 
of  Boikau!  La  Bruyere,  precursor  of  Meniere!!!  "  One  pardons  him  all  that 
on  account  of  his  swan's  pen. 

B 


50  MONDAY-CHATS. 

ence,  during  his  last  years,  with  M.  Destouches,  made  a 
kind  of  pleasant  wager  that  he  would  beat,  refute  and 
incessantly  correct  his  friend  with  well-chosen  quotations 
from  the  Satires  or  the  Epistles.  Once  more,  Horace  has 
nothing  in  particu.lar  to  do  with  Bossuet,  and  there  is  no 
occasion  to  implicate  him  on  his  account.  The  great 
pagan  preference  of  Bossuet  (if  one  may  use  such  an  ex- 
pression) was  naturally  for  Homer,  and  next  for  Virgil : , 
Horace,  according  to  his  judgment  and  taste,  came  far 
behind  them.  But  the  book  which  soon  preeminently 
gave  direction  to  the  genius  and  calling  of  Bossuet,  and 
which  became  his  rule  in  everything,  was  the  Bible;  it 
is  said  that  the  first  time  he  read  it,  he  was  completely 
illuminated  and  transported.  He  had  found  in  it  the 
source  whence  his  own  genius  was  going  to  flow,  like  one 
of  the  four  rivers  in  Genesis. 

Bossuet  was  early  destined  to  the  church:  tonsured 
when  eight  years  old,  he  was  hardly  thirteen  when  he 
was  made  a  canon  of  the  cathedral  at  Metz.  His  child- 
hood and  his  youth  were  so  regular  and  pure,  and  point- 
ed so  directly  to  the  church  as  his  destination,  that  La- 
martine  says:  "There  is  no  trace  of  a  fault  to  be  seen 
in  his  childhood,  or  of  an  act  of  levitj^  in  his  youth;  he 
seemed  to  escape  the  frailties  of  nature  without  a  strug- 
gle, and  to  have  no  other  passion  than  love  for  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  good  (and  the  true).  One  would  have  said 
that  he  himself  respected  in  advance  the  future  author- 
ity of  his  name,  of  his  ministry,  and  that  he  was  anx- 
ious that  there  should  not  be  a  human  spot  to  wipe  away 
from  the  man  of  God,  when  he  should  leave  the  world 
to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  the  tabernacle."  Why  does 
M.  de  Lamartine,  who  discovers  on  his  way  these  charm- 


BOSSUET.  51 

ing  views  and  these  glimpses  of  a  superior  biographer, 
let  them  escape,  through  his  negligence,  and  almost  im- 
mediately spoil  them? 

Bossuet  came  to  Paris  for  the  first  time  in  September, 
1642.  It  is  said  that  on  the  very  day  of  his  arrival  he 
saw  the  entry  of  the  dying  cardinal,  who  was  returning 
to  Paris  after  his  avenging  journey  to  the  South,  and 
was  carried  in  a  movable  room  covered  with  a  scarlet 
cloth.  To  have  seen,  but  for  a  day,  Richelieu  all-power- 
ful in  his  purple,  and  to  have  seen,  soon  after,  the 
Fronde,  civil  war  and  anarchy  let  loose,  was  for  Bossuet 
,an  abridged  course  of  political  philosophy,  from  which 
he  drew  the  true  lesson:  better,  surely,  one  master  than 
a  thousand  masters,  and  better  still  that  the  master 
should   be  the  King  himself,  and  not  the  minister. 

Entering  upon  a  course  of  philosophy  at  the  college 
of  Navarre,  he  shone  there  in  the  theses  and  public  per- 
formances; he  was  a  prodigy  and  a  school  angel  before 
becoming  the  eagle  we  admire.  It  is  known  that,  having 
been  extolled  at  the  hotel  de  Ramhouillet  by  the  marquis 
de  Feuquieres,  who  had  known  his  father  at  Metz,  and 
who  continued  his  good  will  to  the  son,  the  young  Bossuet 
was  conducted  there  one  evening,  to  preach  an  impro- 
vised sermon.  In  consenting  to  these  singular  exercises, 
and  to  these  tournaments  where  his  person  and  his  gifts 
were  challenged,  and  though  treated  as  an  intellectual 
virtuoso  in  the  salons  of  the  hotel  de  Ramhouillet  and 
the  hotel  de  Never s,  Bossuet  did  not  apparently  subject 
himself  to  the  slightest  charge  of  vanity,  and  there  is  no 
example  of  a  precocious  genius  which  has  been  so  praised 
and  so  caressed  by  the  world,  which  has  remained  so  per- 
fectly exempt  from  all  self-love  and  from  all  coquetry. 


52  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

He  went  often  to  Metz,  to  rest  in  study  and  in  an 
austerer  life  from  the  successes  and  triumphs  at  Paris. 
He  became  there  successively  subdeacon,  deacon,  arch- 
deacon, and  priest  (1652).  He  remained  there  wholly 
for  about  six  years,  in  order  that  he  might  diligently 
discharge  the  duties  of  archdeacon  and  canon ;  he  preached 
there  the  first  sermons  we  have  from  him,  and  his  first 
panegyrics.  He  there  made  his  first  controversial  attacks 
ujDon  the  Protestants,  who  abounded  in  that  province.  In 
a  word,  Bossuet  conducted  himself  like  a  young  militant 
priest,  who,  instead  of  accepting  at  first  an  agreeable  post 
at  the  centre  and  in  the  capital,  loves  better  to  inure 
and  harden  himself  by  carrying  the  arms  of  eloquence 
where  duty  and  danger  lie,  to  the  frontiers. 

One  of  the  oldest  sermons  of  Bossuet,  and  one  of  those 
which  he  preached  in  his  youth  at  Metz,  has  been  signal- 
ized by  the  abbe  Yaillant:  it  is  the  sermon  for  the  ninth 
Sunday  after  Pentecost.  In  this  sermon  Bossuet  wishes 
to  show  at  once  the  goodness  and  the  rigor  of  God,  the 
tenderness  and  the  severity  of  Jesus.  He  begins  by  exhib- 
iting Jesus  as  compassionate,  and  weeping  over  Jerusalem, 
at  the  moment  when  he  reenters  the  city  which  is  going 
to  betray  him;  then  he  will  show  him  irritated  and  im- 
placable, avenging  himself,  or  letting  his  Father  avenge 
him,  upon  the  walls  and  upon  the  children  of  that  same 
Jerusalem.  This  sermon, —  preached  "as  God  inspired 
me,"  says  Bossuet  in  concluding  it, —  has  in  it  something 
youthful,  vivid,  and  bold,  and.  in  passages,  something 
hazai-dous  and  almost  strange.  He  begins  grandly  and 
with  a  noble  similitude:  "As  one  sees  that  brave  soldiers, 
in  certain  remote  places,  where  the  various  chances  of 
war  may  have  thrown  them,  do  not  neglect  to  march  at 


BOSSUET.  53 

the  appointed  times  to  the  rendezvous  of  their  brigades 
appointed  by  the  general;  so,  the  Savior  Jesus,  when  he 
saw  that  his  hour  was  come,  resolved  to  quit  all  the 
other  countries  of  Palestine  through  which  he  had  gone 
preaching  the  word  of  life;  and  knowing  well  that  it  was 
the  will  of  his  Father  that  he  should  return  to  Jerusalem, 
in  order  to  undergo  there,  a  few  days  after,  the  anguish 
of  the  last  suffering,  he  turned  his  steps  toward  that 
treacherous  city,  that  he  might  celebrate  there  that  Pass- 
over, which  has  been  made  forever  memorable  by  the 
institution  of  his  holy  mysteries  and  by  the  shedding  of 
his  blood."'  And  it  is  then,  while  Jesus  is  descending  the 
Mount  of  Olives,  that  he  represents  him  as  touched  to  the 
quick  in  his  heart  with  a  tender  compassion,  and  weeping 
over  the  ungrateful  city  whose  ruin  he  sees  beforehand; 
then  suddenly,  without  transition,  and  with  an  abrupt 
sally,  which  may  seem  to  indicate  a  still  juvenile  erudition, 
Bossuet  attacks  the  heresy  of  the  Marcionifes,  who,  not 
knowing  how  to  reconcile  goodness  and  justice  in  one  God, 
divided  the  divine  nature,  and  made  two  Gods:  one,  purely 
idle  and  useless,  after  the  manner  of  the  Epicureans,  "  a 
God  under  whose  rule  sins  rejoice,"  whom  one  has  since 
called  the  God  of  honest  people;  and  over  against  that 
God,  indulgent  to  excess,  they  framed  another,  purely 
vengeful,  purely  wicked  and  cruel:  and  pushing  the  con- 
clusion to  the  limit,  they  also  imagined  two  Christs  in  the 
image  of  the  two  Fathers.  After  having  addressed  the 
heretic  Marcion  to  his  face  (in  the  words  of  Tertullian), 
"  Thou  dost  not  stray  so  far  from  the  truth,  Marcion,  .  .  ." 
he  enters  upon  his  theme,  and  shows  that  this  compassion 
and  this  justice  both  subsist,  but  must  not  be  separated; 
he  proceeds  in  the  same  discourse  to  portray  the  Savior 


54  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

compassionate  and  the  Savior  inexorable,  the  pitying 
heart  and  then  the  angry  heart  of  Jesus:  "  Hear,  tirst 
of  all,  the  sweet  and  benignant  voice  of  that  Lamb  with- 
out spot,  and  afterward  3'ou  shall  hear  the  terrible  roar- 
ings of  that  victorious  Lion  l>orn  of  the  tribe  of  Judah: 
that  is  the  subject  of  this  discourse.'' 

In  this  exordium  we  see  a  singular  fii'e,  an  ingenious 
and  exuberant  imagination,  a  slightly  subtle  erudition, 
which  attacks  at  the  outset  a  strange  heresy;  as  Chateau- 
briand said,  we  see  "the  foam  on  the  bit  of  the  young 
courser." 

The  first  head  of  the  discourse  in  which  the  orator  glo- 
rifies the  goodness  of  Jesus,  so  consistent  with  his  true 
nature,  is  characterized  by  leaps  and  flights,  by  vivid  and 
impetuous  terms,  by  significant  words  which  force  home 
the  thought;  a  little  archaism  mingles  with  the  style: 
"And  touching  that  (compassion)  I  recollect,"  says  the? 
orator,  "  a  little  saying  of  Saint  Peter's,  in  which  he  very 
well  describes  the  Savior  to  Cornelius:  '  Jesus  of  Nazareth,' 
says  he,  '  a  man  approved  of  God,  who  went  about  doing 
good,  and  healing  all  that  wex'e  oppressed.'  Pertransit 
henefaciendo.  ...  0  God!  how  beautiful  these  words,  and 
how  eminently  worthy  of  my  Savior!"'  He  then  unfolds 
the  beauty  of  these  words  in  a  paraphrase  or  strophe 
full  of  joyousness.  He  calls  to  mind  Pliny  the  Younger 
glorifying  his  Trajan  who  traveled  over  the  world  less 
by  his  footsteps  than  by  his  victories:  "And  what  does 
this  mean,  think  you, —  to  travel  over  provinces  by  victo- 
ries? Is  it  not  to  carry  carnage  and  pillage  eveiy where? 
Ah!  in  how  much  more  lovely  a  way  did  my  Savior 
travel  over  Judea!  He  ti-avelled  over  it  less  by  his  steps 
than  bv  his  kindnesses.     He  went  about  in  all  directions, 


BOSSUET.  55 

healing  the  sick,  consoling  the  wretched,  instructing  the 
ignorant.  It  was  not  simply  the  jjlaces  at  which  he  tar- 
ried that  found  themselves  the  better  for  his  presence:  as 
many  as  were  his  steps,  so  many  were  the  traces  of  his 
bounty.  He  made  the  places  through  which  he  jiassed 
remarkable  by  the  profusion  of  his  blessings.  In  that 
little  village  there  are  no  blind  men  or  cripples;  no  doubt, 
said  one,  the  kind-heax'ted  Jesus  has  gone  that  way."  In 
all  this  part  of  the  sermon  there  is  a  youthfulness,  a  fresh- 
ness of  tenderness  and  of  compassion  which  is  charming, 
and  it  has  a  flavor  of  his  early  genius. 

When  he  portrays  to  us  Jesiis  desiring  to  clothe  him- 
self with  a  flesh  similar  to  ours,  and  when  he  sets  forth  the 
motives  for  this  according  to  the  Scriptures,  with  what  dis- 
tinctness and  saliency  he  does  it !  He  represents  that  Savior 
who  seeks  out  misery  and  distress,  as  refusing  to  assume  the 
angelic  nature  which  would  have  exempted  him  from  this, 
—  leaping  {sautant)  upon,  in  some  sense,  and  striving  to 
pursue,  to  apprehend  the  miserable  human  nature,  cling- 
ing to  it  and  running  after  it  although  it  flies  from 
him,  although  it  is  reluctant  to  be  assumed  by  him; 
desiring  for  himself  a  real  flesh,  real  human  blood,  with 
the  qualities  and  weaknesses  of  ours,  and  that  for  what 
reason?  In  order  to  he  compassionate.  Although  in  all 
this  Bossuet  only  makes  use  of  the  terms  of  the  Apostle, 
and  perhaps  of  those  of  Chrysostom,  he  employs  them  with 
a  delight,  a  luxury,  a  gust  for  reduplication,  which  denote 
vivacious  youth:  "He  has  apprehended  the  divine  nature, 
says  the  apostle ;  it  flew  away,  it  did  not  wish  for  the  Sav- 
ior; what  did  he  do?  He  ran  after  it  with  headlong  speed, 
leaping  over  mountains,  that  is  to  say,  the  angelic  ranks. 
He  ran  like  a  giant  with  great  and  immeasurable  steps, 


56  MONDAY-CHATS. 

passing  in  a  moment  from  Heaven  to  earth.  There  he 
overtook  that  fugitive  nature ;  he  seized  it,  lie  apprehended 
it,  hodij  and.  soul.'"  Let  us  study  the  youthful  eloquence 
of  Bossuet,  even  in  his  perils  of  taste,  as  one  studies  the 
youthful  poetry  of  the  great  Corneille. 

I  know  that  one  must  be  very  circumspect  when  he  de- 
scribes the  liberties  of  youth  in  Bossuet's  style,  for  he  is 
one  of  those  speakers  who  have  never  lacked  daring;  I  do 
not  believe,  however,  that  I  am  deceived  when  detecting 
the  superabundance  of  that  age  in  certain  passages.  After 
having,  in  the  first  part  of  the  discourse,  unfolded,  and,  as 
it  were,  exhausted  all  the  tenderness  and  compassion  of 
Jesus-Christ  made  in  the  image  of  man, —  after  having 
exclaimed:  "He  has  pitied  us,  that  good  brother,  as  his 
companions  in  fortune,  having  had  to  pass  through  the 
same  miseries  as  we,"  Bossuet,  in  the  second  part  of  his 
discourse,  portrays  him  returning  and,  finally,  becoming 
angry  on  account  of  the  hardness  of  heart  which  he  finds 
in  man:  "But  as  there  is  no  stream  whose  course  is  so 
tranquil,  that  one  may  not  cause  it,  by  resistance,  to  ac- 
quire the  rapidity  of  a  torrent;  so  the  Savior,  irritated  by 
all  those  obstacles  which  the  blind  Jews  opposed  to  his 
goodness,  seems  to  lay  aside  in  a  moment  all  that  pacific 
disposition."  Then,  by  a  sudden  contrast,  Bossuet  strives 
and,  as  he  says,  employs  all  the  rest  of  his  discourse,  to 
portray  to  his  hearers  the  yet  smoking  ruins  of  Jerusalem. 
He  delights  to  set  forth  the  prophecy  and  the  menace  as 
it  issued  at  first  from  the  mouth  of  Moses;  it  is  couched 
(couch^e)  in  Deuteronomy.  He  enumerates  tlie  circum- 
stances of  its  utterance,  he  comments  on  it,  follows  it  step 
by  step,  all  the  while  accompanying  it  with  his  eagle  cries; 
and  when  he  has  led  the  Romans  and  the  Emperor  Titus 


BOSSUET.  57 

before  Jerusalem,  when  he  is  very  sure  that  it  is  invested, 
that  it  is  surrounded  w^ith  walls  by  the  besiegers,  that  it 
is  more  like  a  prison  than  a  city,  and  that  not  a  single 
person  who  is  shut  up  in  it  like  a  famished  wolf,  can 
escape  to  seek  for  sustenance, —  "Behold,  behold,  chris- 
tians," he  cries  in  triumph,  "  the  jn-ophecy  of  my  Gospel 
fulfilled  in  every  particular.  Behold  thyself  besieged  by 
thy  enemies,  as  my  master  foretold  thee  forty  years  be- 
fore: '0  Jerusalem,  behold  thou  art  shut  in  on  all  sides, 
they  have  compassed  thee  round,  they  have  surrounded 
thee  with  ramparts  and  forts!''  These  are  the  words  of 
my  text;  and  is  there  a  single  word  which  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  put  there  to  describe  that  circumvallation, 
not  with  lines,  but  with  walls'?  After  that  period,  what 
words  could  paint  to  you  their  raging  hunger,  their 
fury,  and  their  desjDair?"  Here,  again,  it  seems  to  me, 
that  young  Bossuet  indulges  in  a  little  excess;  and  just 
as  in  the  first  part  he  had  gone  so  far,  with  regard  to 
the  God-made  man,  as  to  speak  of  the  qualities  of  the 
blood  and  of  the  temperature  of  the  body,  he  proceeds  in 
this  second  part  to  dwell  on  the  horrors  of  the  famine  and 
the  foul  details  of  the  contagion.  He  will  use  terms 
still  more  frightful  when  he  wishes  to  declare  the  final 
sentence,  the  dispersion  of  the  Jewish  nation  through 
the  world,  and  to  expose  to  us  its  members  draivn  and 
quartered.  It  is  true  he  immediately  adds:  "This  com- 
parison excites  your  hori'or";  yet  he  pushes  it  to  the  end, 
without  any  fear  of  the  consequences.  I  see  in  this  a  proof 
that  he  is  young  still;  he  has  some  cruelty,  not  in  the 
heart,  but  in  his  talent.* 

*  So  with  the  Count  de  Maistre  in  that  famous  passage  upon  the  execu- 
tioner.   This  passage  of  Bossuet  resembles  and  recalls  it. 


68  MONDAY-CHATS. 

The  readei-  will  have  remarked  how  easily  he  appro- 
priates that  of  which  he  speaks  and  upon  which  he  relies: 
my  Gospel,  '})uj  text,  my  twenty-eighth  chapter  of  Deuter- 
onomy, my  master,  my  pontiff,  etc.  He  loves  these  sover- 
eign forms;  he  lays  his  hand  upon  things,  and  while  he 
is  speaking  he  cannot  help  performing  the  office  of  God 
his  master.  It  is  not  self-love  or  arrogance  in  Bossuet; 
it  is  only  that  his  own  personality  is  absorbed  and  con- 
founded in  the  public  personality  of  the  Levite  and  the 
priest.  He  is  at  these  moments  but  the  man  of  the 
Most- High. 

A  passage  in  this  discourse  gives  us  its  date:  upon  the 
occasion  of  the  civil  disorders  which  break  out  in  besieged 
Jerusalem,   and  which  cause  these  insane  people,   on  re- 
turning   from   the   fight   against   the   common   enemy,   to 
come  to  blows  with  each  other,  Bossuet  has  a  reflection 
upon  his  country:  "But  perhajis  you  do  not  observe  that 
God   has  let  fall  the  same  scourges  upon  our  own  heads. 
France,  alas!  our  common  country,  so  long  agitated  by  a 
foreign   war,  completes  its  distresses   with   intestine   divi- 
sions.    Again,  among  the  Jews,  both  pai'ties  combined  to 
repulse  the  common  enemy,  and  were   far   from   wishing 
to  strengthen  themselves  by  its  assistance,  or  to  have  any 
understanding  with  it;  the  least  suspicion  of  such  a  thing 
would  have  been  punished  by  death  without  mercy.     But 
we,  on  the  contrary  .  .  .  ah!  friends,  let  us  not  finish,  let 
us  spare  our  shame  a  little."     But  tve,  on  the  contrary  .  .  . 
this  is  an  allusion  to  the  party  which  favored  the  Span- 
iards, to  the  prince  of  Conde,  who  had  become  their  ally 
and  general.     When  Bossuet,  at  a  later  day,  in  his  Funeral 
Oration  over  the  prince,  shall  speak  with  so  much  repug- 
nance of  civil  discords,  and  of  those  things  concerniny  which 


BOSSUET.  59 

he  wished  he  could  he  forever  silent.,  he  will  repeat  a  real 
and  livel}'  sentiment  which  had  already  drawn  from  him 
a  cry  both  of  pain  and  alarm. 

The  lancruacre  of  this  sermon  as  of  all  the  discourses 
of  these  years,  is  a  little  more  antique  than  that  of 
Bossuet  when  he  had  become  the  orator  of  Lewis  XIV: 
one  notes  in  it  some  phrases  of  an  earlier  age:  "But 
still  let  us  pretend  to  be  christians,  if  it  be,  nevertheless, 
that  we  spare  nothing,  etc.,  {si  est-ce  neanmoins  que  nous 
n'epargnons  rien,  etc.)  It  is  declared  that  the  example 
of  the  ruin  of  Jerusalem,  and  of  that  divine  vengeance, 
so  public,  so  indubitable,  must  serve  as  a  memorial  for 
ages  upon  ages  (inemorial  es  siecles  des  siecles.)""  Else- 
where it  is  rather  in  the  employment  of  certain  roughly 
concise  woi'ds,  and  in  the  almost  Latin  tui'n  of  expres- 
sion, that  one  perceives  the  contemporary  of  Pascal: 
"  For,  finally,  do  not  persuade  yourselves  that  God  may  let 
you  rebel  {reheller)  against  him  for  ages:  his  compassion 
is  infinite,  but  its  effects  have  their  limits  prescribed  by 
his  Avisdom:  that  wisdom  which  has  counted  the  stars, 
which  has  bounded  this  universe  by  a  definite  roundness 
{qui  aborne  cet  univers  dans  line  rondeur  finie),  which  has 
prescribed  bounds  to  the  waves  of  the  sea,  has  marked 
the  height  to  which  it  has  resolved  to  let  iniquities 
mount."  One  would  believe  he  was  reading  a  passage 
in  Pascal's  Thoughts. 

I  have  still  much  to  say  upon  that  first  period  of 
Bossuet,  at  Metz  as  well  as  at  Paris.  How  was  it  with 
his  person  in  his  youth,  when  he  pronounced  these  dis- 
courses, already  so  powerful,  with  a  precocious  authority 
which  was  radiant  with  a  visible  inspiration,  and  which 
was  embellished,  so  to  speak,  with  a  certain  degree  of  art- 


60  MONDAY-CHATS. 

lessness  (naivete)?  M.  de  Bausset  has  asked  and  has 
answered  this  question,  so  far  as  he  could,  in  very  gen- 
eral terms:  "Nature,"  says  he,  ''endowed  him  with  the 
noblest  of  figures;  the  fire  of  his  mind  shone  forth  in  his 
looks;  the  traits  of  his  genius  penetrated  all  his  dis- 
courses. It  is  enough  to  look  at  the  portrait  of  Bossuet, 
painted  in  his  old  age  by  the  celebrated  Rigaud,  to  form 
an  idea  of  what  he  must  have  been  in  his  youth."  He 
cites  a  little  farther  on  the  testimony  of  the  abbe  Ledieu, 
who  reports  that  "  Bossuet's  look  was  pleasant  and  pierc- 
ing; that  his  voice  appeared  always  to  proceed  from  a 
passionate  soul;  that  his  gestures  in  oratorical  action 
were  modest,  quiet,  and  natural."  These  delineations,  a 
little  tame  and  after  the  manner  of  Daguesseau,  have  not 
been  satisfactory,  we  imagine,  to  M.  de  Lamartine,  who, 
with  that  second  sight  which  is  granted  to  poets,  knew 
how  to  see  Bossuet  distinctl}'^  as  he  was  when  young, 
Bossuet  at  the  age  of  Eliacim,  even  before  he  had  entered 
the  pulpit,  and  when  he  was  simply  ascending  the  steps 
of  the  altar.     The  au.thor  of  Jocelyn  says: 

"  He  (Bossuet)  was  not  nine  years  old  when  his  hair  was  cut 
in  a  circlet  at  the  top  of  his  head.  At  thirteen  he  was  nominated 
canon  of  Metz.  .  .  .  That  tonsure  and  that  vesture  were  as  be- 
coming to  his  physiognomy  as  to  his  general  appearance.  One 
recognized  the  priest  in  the  youth.  His  frame,  which  was  greatly 
to  increase,  was  tall  for  his  age;  it  had  the  dehcacy  and  supple- 
ness of  the  man  who  is  not  destined  to  bear  any  other  burden 
than  thought;  who  glides  composedly,  with  quiet  steps,  amid  the 
columns  of  basilicas,  and  whom  habitual  genuflection  and  prostra- 
tion soften  under  the  majesty  of  God.  His  hair  was  of  a  brown 
tint  and  silken ;  one  or  two  locks  rose  in  an  involuntary  tuft  at  the 
top  of  the  forehead  like  the  diadem  of  Moses,  or  like  the  horns 
of  the  prophetic  ram;  these  hairs  thus  standing,  whose  motion 
one  notices  again  even  in  his  portraits  taken  at  an  advanced  age, 
gave  du  vent  and  inspiration  to  liis  hair.     His  eyes  were  black 


BOSSUET.  61 

and  penetrating,  but  mild.  His  look  was  a  continual  and  serene 
gleam;  the  light  did  not  dart  forth  in  flashes,  it  ran  from  them 
with  a  radiance  which  allured  the  eye  without  dazzling  it.  His 
lofty  and  flat  forehead  revealed  through  a  fine  skin  the  interlaced 
reins  of  the  temples.  His  nose,  almost  straight,  slender,  delicately 
sculptured,  between  the  Greek  softness  and  the  Roman  energy, 
was  neither  turned  up  with  impudence,  nor  depressed  by  the 
heaviness  of  the  senses.  His  mouth  opened  wide  between  deli- 
cate lips;  his  lips  quivered  often  without  utterance,  as  if  with  the 
wind  of  an  internal  speech  which  modesty  repressed  before  older 
men.  A  half  smile,  full  of  grace  and  of  mute  after- thought,  was 
their  most  frequent  expression.  One  saw  in  them  a  naturally 
sincere  disposition,  never  rudeness  or  disdain.  To  sum  up  gener- 
ally, in  that  physiognomy  the  charm  of  the  character  so  com- 
pletely hid  from  view  the  force  of  the  understanding,  and  suavity 
so  harmoniously  tempered  the  virility  of  the  entire  expression, 
that  one  detected  the  genius  only  by  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  the 
muscles  and  nerves  of  the  thought,  and  the  effect  on  the  beholder 
was  attraction  rather  than  admiration." 

Here  is  a  primitiire  Bossuet  very  much  softened  and 
mellowed,  and.  it  seems  to  me,  a  Bossuet  who  is  made, 
very  much  at  one's  fancy,  to  resemble  Joeelyn  and  Fene- 
lon,  in  order  that  it  may  be  said  afterward:  "The  soul 
of  that  great  man  was  evidently  of  one  temper,  and  the 
genius  of  another.  Nature  had  made  him  tender;  theo- 
logical dogmas  had  made  him  hard."  I  do  not  believe  in 
this  contradiction  in  Bossuet,  the  most  undivided  and  the 
least  contested  nature  that  we  know.  But  what  I  am 
not  less  sure  of  is,  that  the  illustrious  biographer  treats 
literary  history  here  absolutely  as  history  is  treated  in  a 
historic  romance;  wherever  facts  are  wanting,  or  the 
dramatic  interest  demands  it,  the  character  is  carelessly 
invented.  Without  refusing  the  praise  which  certain  in- 
genious and  delicate  touches  of  this  portrait  merit,  I  will 
permit  myself  to  ask  more  seriously:  Is  it  proper,  is  it 
becoming,  thus    to   paint    Bossuet    as    a    youth,  to  flatter 


62  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

(caresser)  thus  with  the  brush,  as  one  would  a  Greek 
dancing  woman,  or  a  beautiful  child  of  the  English  aris- 
tocracy, him  who  never  ceased  to  grow  under  the  shadow 
of  the  temple, —  that  serious  young  man  who  gave  promise 
simply  of  the  great  man,  all  genius  and  all  eloquence? 
What !  do  you  not  feel  it  ?  —  there  is  here  a  moi'al  con- 
tradiction. In  a  sermon  delivered  in  his  youth,  upon  the 
occasion  of  one's  taking  the  veil,  Bossuet,  speaking  of  the 
modesty  of  the  virgins,  and  contrasting  it  with  the  free- 
doms of  many  christian  girls  in  the  world,  said:  "Who 
could  recite  all  the  artifices  they  employ  to  attract  the 
looks  of  men?  and  what  are  those  looks,  and  can  T  speak 
of  them  in  this  pulpit?  No:  it  is  enough  to  tell  you 
that  the  looks  which  please  them  are  not  indifferent  looks; 
they  are  tJwse  jjassionate,  eager  looks,  ivhkh  drink  in  deep 
draughts  from  their  faces  all  the  jioison  theij  have  pre- 
pared for  men's  hearts;  these  are  the  looks  they  love." 
An  orator.  I  know,  is  not  a  virgin;  the  first  condition 
of  the  orator,  even  the  sacred  orator,  is  to  be  bold  and 
daring ;  but  what  boldness  was  Bossuet's !  I  can  say  that, 
with  his  manly  and  virile  modesty,  he  would  have  blushed, 
even  in  youth,  at  being  viewed  in  that  way  in  order  to 
be  painted.  Far,  far  from  his  taste  these  fondlings  and 
these  physiological  feats  of  a  brush  which  amuses  itself 
with  carmine  and  with  veins!  Go  rather  and  see  in  the 
Louvre  his  bust  by  Coysevox:  a  noble  head,  a  fine  bearing, 
pride  without  arrogance,  a  lofty  and  full  forehead,  the 
seat  of  thought  and  majesty;  the  mouth  singularly  agree- 
able in  expression,  delicate,  speaking  even  when  it  is  in 
repose;  the  profile  straight  and  preeminently  notable:  in 
the  whole  a  look  of  fire,  of  intelligence,  and  of  goodness, 
the  figure  which  is  the  worthiest  of  the  man,  just  as  he 


BOSSUET.  63 

was  formed  to  address  his  fellows,  and  to  look  at  the 
heavens.  Take  away  the  wrinkles  from  that  face,  give  it 
the  bloom  of  life,  throw  over  it  the  veil  of  youth,  imagine 
a  young  and  adolescent  Bossuet,  but  be  sparing  of  your 
descriptions  of  him,  for  fear  you  may  fall  short  of  the 
severity  of  the  subject   and  of  the    respect  which  is  due 

to  it. 

May  29,  1854. 


64  MONDAY-CHATS. 


II. 


I  DESIGN  in  this  paper  only  to  continue  my  view  of 
Bossuet  in  his  early  career,  not  before  he  was  renowned 
(for  that  was  early),  but  before  he  became  glorious.  The 
reverence  we  have  for  him  does  not  need  to  become  super- 
stitious, and  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  acknowl- 
edge the  perils  and  the  striking  inequalities  of  a  youthful 
manner  of  speech  which  will  soon  attain  of  itself  to  the 
plenitude  of  its  eloquence.  It  is  a  long  distance  from  the 
Panegyric  of  Saint  Gorgon,  which  he  preached  at  Metz 
during  the  years  of  his  stay  there,  to  the  Panegtjric  of 
Saint  Paul,  which  signalized  the  first  years  of  his  preach- 
ing at  Paris,  and  which  is  already  in  the  style  of  the 
greatest  of  our  sacred  orators.  In  the  Panegtjric  of  Saint 
Gorgon,  the  subject  was  evidently  at  fault;  little  more 
was  known  of  that  martyr  than  his  suffering,  and  the 
orator  found  himself  compelled  to  fall  back  upon  the 
frightful  details  of  the  physical  torments  which  had  to 
be  undergone  by  the  person  whom  he  was  to  extol:  "The 
tyrant  made  the  holy  martyr  sleep  upon  an  iron  gridiron, 
already  red  with  the  fierce  heat,  which  instantly  contracted 
his  bared  nerves.  .  .  .  What  a  horrible  spectacle!"  And 
he  describes  the  affair,  not  dispensing  with  any  circum- 
stance. We  have  two  discourses  of  Bossuet  upon  the  same 
subject,  or,  at  least,  one  entire  discourse  and  the  outline  or 
sketch  of  another  which  he  delivered  also:  it  was  a  tribute 
paid  to  a  parish  of  the  town  which  was  under  the  patron- 
age of  the  saint.  Bossuet  is  not  one  of  those  ingenious 
men  of  talent  who  have  the  art  of  treating  commonplace 
subjects  excellently,  and  of  introducing  into  them  foreign 


BOSSUET.  65 

materials;  but  let  the  subject  which  is  presented  to  him 
be  vast,  lofty,  majestic,  and  he  is  at  ease,  and,  the  higher 
the  theme,  the  more  is  he  equal  to  its  demands.  When 
he  quitted  Metz  to  establish  himself  in  Paris,  Bossuet 
showed  immediately  the  effect  of  the  change  in  his  elo- 
quence, and  in  reading  his  subsequent  productions,  we  feel 
as  if  we  were  passing  from  one  climate  to  another.  "  In 
following  the  discourses  of  Bossuet  in  their  chronological 
order,"  the  abbe  Vaillant  very  well  says,  "we  see  the  old 
words  fall  successively  as  the  leaves  of  the  woods  fall." 
The  superannuated  or  trivial  expressions,  the  offensive 
images,  the  slips  of  taste,  which  are  still  less  the  fault  of 
Bossuet's  youth  than  of  all  that  epoch  of  transition  which 
preceded  the  great  reign,  disappear  and  leave  in  use  only 
that  new,  familiar,  unexpected  speech,  which  will  never 
recoil,  as  he  said  of  Saint  Paul,  from  the  glorious  mean- 
nesses of  Christianity,  but  will  learn  also  magnificently  to 
consecrate  its  combats,  its  spiritual  government,  and  its 
triumphs.  Called  often  from  the  year  1662  to  preach 
before  the  Court,  having  to  speak  in  churches  or  before 
large  bodies  in  Pai-is,  Bossuet  acquired  there  at  once  the 
language  in  use,  while  still  preserving  and  developing  his 
own;  he  had  completely  despoiled  the  provinces;  there, 
during  six  years  of  exercise  and  discipline,  he  had  been 
trained;  the  Court  polished  him  only  so  far  as  it  was 
necessary.  He  was  a  finished  orator  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
four.  During  eight  or  nine  years  (1660-1669),  he  was 
the  great  fashionable  preacher,  as  well  as  the  most 
renowned. 

Two  opinions  resulted  from  the  publication  of  the  Ser- 
mons of  Bossuet  for  the  first  time,  in  1772;  I  have 
already    indicated    that    of    the    abbe  Maury,  who    placed 


66  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

these  Sermons   above    everything  else  of  that  kind  which 
the  French  pulpit  had  produced;  the  other  opinion,  which 
was    that    of   La  Harpe,   and   which    I    have  known  to  be 
shared    in   by  other    sensible    men,  was    less    enthusiastic, 
and   showed    more    sensitiveness    to    the    inequalities    and 
discordances  of  tone.     It  would  be  possible  to  justify  both 
of  these   opinions,  with  the  understanding   that   the  first 
should    triumph  in  the    end,  and  that  the  genius  of  Bos- 
suet,  there   as    elsewhere,  should    keep  the  first  rank.     It 
is  very  true    that,  read  continuously,  without    any  notice 
of  the    age    of  the  writer,  and  of  the  place  and  circum- 
stances of  their  composition,  some    of   these  discourses  of 
Bossuet  may  offend   or    surprise   some  minds  that  love  to 
dwell  upon  the  more  uniform  and  more  exact   continuity 
of  Bourdaloue  and  Massillon.     For  example,  one  opens  the 
volumes,   and   he  finds   at   the    very  beginning,  one   after 
the    other,  four    sermons    or    plans    of    sermons  upon  All 
Saints'  Day.     The  first,  of  which  we  have  only  a  sketch, 
and  which  is  little  more  than  a  mass  of  texts  and  notes, 
was   preached  at  Metz;    the   second,  which  we  have  com- 
plete, was  also  preached   there.      This  second  discourse  is 
fatiguing,  slightly  subtle,  and    has    too    much    theological 
display.     Wishing  to  give  an  idea  of  the  felicity  and  glory 
of   the    saints  in  the  life  to  come,  wishing  to  unfold    the 
designs  of  God  in  the  discipline  of  his  elect,  and  to  show 
how  he  takes   them,  manages    them,    prepares   them,   and 
only  succeeds   at    the    very  last    in    perfecting    them,   the 
orator,  who   seeks  to  give  a  rational    explanation   of   this 
procedure,    institutes    a    loftj^    dissertation     rather    than 
preaches  a  sermon:  he  must  have  had  little  influence  that 
time  on  the  minds    of   his    auditory,    and    they  could  not 
have    followed    him    fur.     Not    that    there    are    not    great 


BOSSUET.  67 

thoughts,  beautiful  and  grand  comparisons,  and  also  the 
ever  true  and  ever  touching  complaints  about  human  life, 
—  so  agitated  and  so  wretched  in  itself,  that  it  was  neces- 
sary,  he  says,  that  God  should  use  some  address  and  some 
artifice  in  regard  to  it,  to  conceal  its  miseries  from  us. 
"And  yet,  0  blindness  of  the  human  mind!  it  is  this  life 
which  seduces, —  this  life,  which  is  only  trouble  and  agi- 
tation, which  amounts  to  nothing,  which  draws  just  so 
much  nearer  to  its  end  as  the  moments  of  its  duration 
are  multiplied,  and  which  will  fail  lis  suddenly  like  a 
false  friend,  when  it  shall  seem  to  promise  us  the  most 
repose.  Of  what  are  we  thinking?"  But,  in  spite  of 
these  and  many  other  noteworthy  traits,  this  second  ser- 
mon for  AH  Saints  is,  I  repeat  it,  fatiguing  and  a  little 
obscure;  and  if  one  would  see  again  the  great  orator  in 
Bossuet,  he  must  pass  to  the  third:  or  rather  in  a  well- 
advised  reading  of  that  part  of  Bossuet's  works,  one 
should  omit,  suppress  both  the  first  sermon  and  the  fourth, 
which  are  only  incomjilete  sketches, —  not  stop  at  the 
second,  which  is  difficult, —  and  then  one  will  freshly  enjoy 
all  the  moral  and  serene  beauty  of  that  third  sermon 
preached  in  1669  in  the  royal  chapel,  and  in  which  Bos- 
suet, refuting  Montaigne,  finishing  and  consummating 
Plato,  demonstrates  and  almost  renders  evident  to  the 
least  prepared  minds,  the  conditions  of  the  only  true, 
durable,  and  eternal  happiness.  And  here  observe  that 
he  does  not  do  as  in  the  discourse  at  Metz,  where  he 
thought  much  more  of  dividing,  of  investigating  his  sub- 
ject than  of  lighting  it  up;  he  reasons  no  longer  for 
himself  alone,  he  thinks  of  his  auditors,  he  does  not  lose 
sight  of  them  for  an  instant:  "0  breadth,  0  depth,  0 
boundless  length    and   inaccessible  height  (of  the  celestial 


68  MONDAY-CHATS. 

happiness)!  will  it  be  possible  for  me  to  comprehend  you 
in  a  single  discourse?  Let  us  go  together,  my  brethren, 
let  us  enter  that  abyss  of  glory  and  of  majesty.  Let  u« 
cast  ourselves  with  confidence  upon  that  ocean.  .  .  ."' 
When  he  would  make  us  comprehend  that  true  happiness 
for  an  intelligent  being  lies  in  the  perception  and  pos- 
session of  truth,  he  sees  clearly  that  he  will  be  asked: 
"What  is  truth?"  and  he  is  going  to  try  to  answer  it: 
"  Gross  and  carnal  mortals,  we  understand  everything 
corporeally;  we  wish  always  for  material  images  and 
forms.  Shall  I  not  be  able  to-day  to  open  those  internal 
and  spiritual  eyes,  which  are  concealed  in  the  depths  of 
your  soul,  to  turn  them  aside  a  moment  from  the  vague 
and  changing  images  which  the  senses  present,  and  ac- 
custom them  to  bear  the  sight  of  pure  truth?  Let  us 
try,  let  us  endeavor,  let  us  see.  .  .  ."  The  second  point 
is  altogether  moral  in  character,  and  very  beautiful.  In 
order  to  give  a  vivid  idea  of  the  genuine  pleasures  which 
the  blessed  enjoy,  the  orator  says  to  himself  as  well  as  to 
his  hearers:  "Let  us  philosophize  a  little,  before  all  things 
else,  upon  the  nature  of  the  world's  joys."  He  then  tries 
to  make  us  realize,  by  what  is  lacking  to  our  joys,  what 
must  enter  into  those  of  a  better  state:  "For  it  is  an 
error  to  believe  that  we  must  welcome  joy  equally,  from 
whatever  quarter  it  originates  in,  whatever  hand  offers 
it  to  us.  Of  all  the  passions,  the  fullest  of  illusion  is 
joy."  Let  us  ask  ourselves  always:  Whence  comes  it,  and 
what  is  the  occasion  of  it?  Where  does  it  lead  us,  and 
in  what  state  does  it  leave  us?  If  it  passes  away  so 
quickly,  it  is  not  the  true.  The  happiness  of  a  being  (a 
great  principle,  according  to  Bossuet,)  must  never  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  perfection  of  that  being;  true  happi- 


BOSSUET.  69 

ness,  worthy  of  the  name,  is  the  state  in  which  the  being 
is  living  most  in  accordance  with  its  nature,  in  which  it 
is  most  truly  itself,  in  the  plenitude  and  in  the  satisfac- 
tion of  its  inner  desires.  Montaigne  (he  names  him  in 
the  pulpit),  in  vain  holds  faith  in  check,  degrades  human 
nature,  and  compares  it  to  that  of  the  brutes,  by  giving 
it  often  the  lower  place:  "But  tell  me,  subtle  philosopher, 
you  who  laugh  so  archly  at  the  man  who  imagines  that 
he  is  something,  will  you  count  it  for  nothing  to  know 
God?  To  know  a  primal  nature,  to  adore  his  eternity,  to 
admire  his  omnipotence,  to  praise  his  wisdom,  to  commit 
one's  self  to  his  providence, —  is  that  nothing  which  dis- 
tinguishes us  from  the  brutes'?"  He  presses  him,  he 
pushes  him;  the  witty  sceptic  has  never  seen  the  flash 
of  a  sword  so  near  his  eyes:  "Well  then!  let  the  ele- 
ments demand  back  from  us  all  that  they  have  lent  us, 
provided  that  God  may  also  demand  back  of  us  that  soul 
which  he  made  in  his  own  likeness.  Perish  all  the 
thoughts  which  we  have  given  to  mortal  things;  but  let 
that  which  was  born  of  God  be  immortal  like  Himself. 
Therefore,  sensual  man,  you  who  renounce  the  future  life 
because  you  fear  its  just  punishments,  do  not  longer  hope 
for  nothingness;  no,  no,  hope  for  it  no  longer:  wish  for 
it,  or  not  wish  for  it,  your  eternity  is  assured  to  you." 

As  for  the  happiness  itself,  of  which  he  would  give 
us  a  just  idea,  the  purely  spiritual  and  internal  happi- 
ness of  the  soul  in  the  other  life,  he  sums  it  up  in  an 
expression  which  concludes  a  happy  development  of  the 
subject,  and  he  defines  it:  "Reason  always  attentive  and 
always  contented."  Take  reason  in  its  liveliest  and  most 
luminous  sense,  the  pure  flame  disengaged  from  the 
senses. 


70  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

By  these  examples,  which  I  might  multiply,  we  see 
clearly  the  march  and  the  rapid  progress  of  the  genius 
of  Bossuet.  Like  all  inventors,  he  has  had,  at  first,  some 
perils  to  oveix-ome,  has  had  to  grope  about,  and  he  has 
done  it  impetuously.  I  recollect  that  formerly  M.  Am- 
pire,  in  his  lectures  at  the  College  of  France,  wishing  to 
characterize  those  three  great  epochs  of  Pulpit  Eloquence 
among  us,  the  time  of  its  creation  and  puissant  establish- 
ment by  Bossuet,  the  time  of  its  full  growth  under  Bour- 
daloue,  and  finally  the  epoch  of  its  extreme  expansion 
and  autumnal  fertility  under  Massillon,  connected  with 
it  the  ancient  names,  now  become  symbols,  which  conse- 
crate the  three  great  periods  of  the  tragic  stage  in 
Greece.  Of  these  names  there  are  two  at  least  which 
may  be  recalled  here  without  incongruity;  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  greatness  and  of  the  majesty  of  ^schylus. 
as  well  as  of  Corneille,  in  Bossuet,  just  as  there  may  be 
visible  something  of  Euripides,  as  well  as  of  Racine,  in 
Massillon. 

Bossuet's  is  a  talent  anterior  in  origin  and  formation 
to  that  of  Lewis  XIV,  but  on  the  score  of  its  completion 
and  perfection  it  owed  much  to  that  j'oung  king.  At- 
tempts have  been  made  more  than  once  to  rob  Lewis 
XIV  of  his  peculiar  useful  influence  and  propitious 
ascendency  over  what  one  has  called  his  age:  for  some 
time,  however,  that  unjust  and  illiberal  contest  seemed 
to  have  been  given  up,  when  a  great  writer  of  our  days, 
M.  Cousin,  suddenly  renewed  it,  and  desired  once  more 
to  despoil  Lewis  XIV  of  his  highest  glory  in  order  to 
carry  it  back  altogether  to  the  preceding  epoch.  ^I. 
Cousin  has  a  very  convenient  way  of  exaggerating  and 
aggrandizing   the  objects  of  his  admiration:    he  degrades 


BOSSCET.  71 

or  depresses  their  surroundings.  It  is  thus  that,  to  exalt 
Corneille,  in  whom  he  sees  .Eschylus,  Sophocles,  all  the 
Greek  tragic  poets  united,  he  sacrifices  and  diminishes 
Racine;  it  is  thus,  that  in  order  to  celebrate  better  the 
epoch  of  Lewis  XIII  and  the  Regency  which  followed,  he 
depresses  the  reign  of  Lewis  XIV;  that,  in  order  to 
glorify  the  Poussins  and  the  Sueiirs,  of  whom  he  speaks, 
perhaps,  with  more  enthusiasm  and  applause  than  direct 
knowledge  and  real,  felt  gust,  he  blasphemes  and  denies 
the  merit  of  the  admirable  Flemish  painting;  he  says  of. 
Raphael  that  he  does  not  toucb  the  feelings,  that  he 
only  plays  around  the  heart,  Circinn  prcecordia  liulit. 
In  a  word,  M.  Cousin  is  voluntarily  a  man  of  foregone 
conclusions,  of  jireconceived  ideas,  or,  rather  still,  he  is 
the  man  of  his  temperament  and  of  his  own  nature.  He 
clings  resolutely  to  what  he  prefers,  as  his  starting-point; 
his  personal  tastes  carry  his  judgment  completely  captive. 
He  is  wedded,  on  all  occasions,  to  his  own  peculiar  opin- 
ions, and  never  adopts  just  ones  till  he  has  been  opjiosed 
on  all  sides  with  contradictions  and  checks,  and  obliged 
to  limit  and  moderate  his  assertions.  Regarding  the 
present  question,  he  has  gone  so  far  as  to  maintain  that 
this  Lewis  XIV,  who  troubles  him,  was  not  entirely  him- 
self, and  somehow  did  not  begin  to  rule  and  to  reign, 
till  after  the  influence  of  M.  de  Lyonne  and  of  Colbert, 
two  pupils  of  Richelieu  and  of  Mazarin,  had  been  ex- 
hausted; so  you  have  the  great  reign  thrown  back  ten  or 
fifteen  years,  and  the  minority  of  the  monarch  strangely 
prolonged   by  an  unexpected   exercise    of  authority.*     M. 

*  It  is  in  the  preface  to  tbe  volume  entitled  Madame  de  Longneville  that 
M.  Cousin  has  said:  "The  influence  of  Lewis  XIV  made  itself  felt  very  late. 
He  did  not  take  the  reins  of  government  till  Ibtil.  and  at  first  he  followed 
hi8  lime,  he  did  not  rule;  he  did  not  appear  to  be  really  himself  till  he  was 


72  MONDAY-CHATS. 

Poujoulat,  taking  these  assertions  very  seriously,  and 
without  ever  permitting  himself  to  smile  at  them,  has 
combated  them  successfully.  Bossuet,  it  seems  to  me, 
presents  us  with  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  striking 
examples  of  the  kind  of  blessings  which  the  age  of  Lewis 
XIV  owed  to  the  young  star  of  its  king,  from  the  very 
first  day.  Honored  by  the  queen,  Anne  of  Austria,  be- 
coming latterly  her  favorite  preacher,  Bossuet  had  at  the 
outset  some  of  those  abounding  and  ingenious  subtleties 
which  characterized  the  taste  of  the  time.  Thus,  preach- 
ing before  the  queen-mother  in  1658  or  1659  the  Pane- 
gyric  on  Sahif.  Theresa,  influenced,  perhaps,  by  the  Span- 
ish saint's  refinements  of  style,  and  developing  at  pleas- 
ure a  passage  of  TertuUian  which  declares  that  Jesus, 
before  dying,  wished  to  satiate  himself  icith  the  luxury  of 
2)atience,  Bossuet  will  not  fear  to  add:  "Would  you  not 
say,  christians,  that,  according  to  the  sentiment  of  that 
Father,  the  whole  life  of  the  Savior  was  a  festival  of 
tvhich  all  the  meats  ivere  torments?  a  strange  festival  in 
the    opinion    of   the    age,    but    one    which    Jesus    deemed 

no  longer  led  by  Lyonne  and  Colbert,  the  last  disciples  of  Richelieu  and  of 
Mazarin.  It  was  then  that,  governing  almost  aloue,  and  superior  to  his  sur- 
roundings, he  everywhere  impressed  his  taste,"  etc.  etc.  The  idea  of  making 
M.  de  Lyonne  reign  and  govern  in  place  of  Lewis  XIV  is  one  of  the  strangest 
of  all.  What!  because  M.  de  Mignet,  in  publishing  the  XegoUations  felalive 
to  the  Spanish  Succession,  has  shown  by  a  series  of  dispatches  that  M.  de 
Lyonne  was  a  very  clever  Secretary  of  State  and  Foreign  Minister,  you,  for 
this  reason,  make  him  out  to  be  a  man  who  delays  the  real  accession  of 
Lewis  XIV,  and  who,  in  your  mind,  provisionally  dethrones  him!  Never  has 
one  more  grossly  abused  the  privilege  of  extracting  information  from  State- 
papers  than  in  making  them  aid  such  a  conclusion.  I3ut  the  sight  of  all 
posthumous  and  unedited  papers  causes  M.  Cousin  a  kind  of  duzzlemeut. 
Lewis  XIV,  in  his  Memoirs,  speaking  of  M.  de  Lyonne  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  contents  himself  with  saying:  "Iii  1071  a  minister  died  who  held  the 
office  of  Secretary  of  State,  having  the  department  of  Foreign  Affairs  He 
was  a  man  of  capacity,  but  not  without  faults;  nevertheless  he  performed 
that  duly  well,  which  was  a  very  important  one  I  spent  some  time  in 
thinking  whom  I  should  appoint  to  that  place."  It  is  thus  that  the  king 
expresses  himself 


BOSSUET.  73 

worthy  of  his  taste!  His  death  sufficed  for  our  safety; 
but  his  death  did  not  suffice  for  tliat  marvellous  appetite 
which  he  had  for  sufi'ering  for  us."  Here  is  much  of 
the  hel  esprit  which  still  clings  to  the  style  of  speech 
fashionable  under  the  Regency.  But  when  he  was  called 
to  speak  before  the  young  king,  he  speedily  learned  to 
correct  such  fancies  and  to  repress  them.  Lewis  XIV, 
when  he  heard  Bossuet  for  the  first  time,  greatly  relished 
his  preaching,  and  did  a  charming  thing  for  him,  quite 
worthy  of  a  young  prince  whose  mother  was  still  living: 
he  had  a  letter  written  to  Bossuet's  father  at  Metz,  con- 
gratnlatiiifj  him  upon  having  such  a  son.  He  who  does 
not  appreciate  this  delicate  act,  is  no  better  fitted  to 
appreciate  the  kind  of  influence  which  that  young  prince 
could  have  on  the  vast  imagination  and  i-easonable  mind 
of  Bossuet.  The  language  of  Lewis  XIV  was  always  ac- 
curate, just  as  the  same  quality,  according  to  another, 
characterized  his  talent  for  rapid  observation.  There  was 
in  him  or  about  him  something  which  warned  men  not 
to  exaggerate,  not  to  force  things.  Bossuet,  when  speak- 
ing in  his  presence,  felt  that,  with  respect  to  a  certain 
refined  taste,  he  was  confronted  by  a  standard.  I  desire 
to  say  nothing  that  is  not  incontestable:  Lewis  XIV, 
when  very  3-oung,  did  Bossuet  a  service  by  giving  him 
proportion  and  all  his  precision.  For  his  inspiration  and 
his  originality  the  great  orator  continued  to  be  indebted 
only  to  himself  and  the  spirit  which  replenished  him. 

There  is  a  fact  which  may  be  verified:  in  this  series  of 
Bossuet's  Sermons,  which  have  been  arranged,  not  in  the 
chronological  order  in  which  he  composed  them,  but  in  the 
order  of  the  christian  year,  beginning  with  All  Saints' 
Day  and   ending  with  Pentecost,  if  you  would  put  your 


74  MONDAY-CHATS. 

finger  unmistakably  upon  one  of  the  finest  and  most  fault- 
less, take  any  one  you  please  of  those  of  which  you  read, 
Preached  before  tlie  Kin;/. 

I  cannot  help  expressing  another  thought.  Oh !  when 
M.  Cousin  speaks  so  freely  of  Lewis  XIV,  of  Lewis  XIII, 
and  of  Richelieu,  giving  the  palm  so  confidently  to  that 
which  he  prefers  and  which  he  thinks  resembles  him,  I 
am  astonished  that  he  has  never  once  asked  himself  this 
question:  "What  would  my  own  talent  have  gained  or 
lost,  that  talent  which  is  daily  compared  with  that  of  the 
writers  of  the  great  age, —  what  would  have  been  gained 
or  lost  by  that  admirable  talent"  (I  forget  that  it  is  he 
that  is  speaking),  "  if  I  had  had  to  write  or  to  discourse, 
were  it  only  for  some  years,  in  the  very  presence  of  Lewis 
XIV,  that  is  to  say,  that  calm,  sober,  and  august  royal  good 
sense?  And  would  not  what  I  should  have  thus  gained  or 
lost,  in  inspiration  or  eloquence,  have  been  precisely  that 
which  was  excessive  in  it,  and  also  that  which  it  lacked 
in  gravity,  in  proportion,  in  propriety,  in  perfect  accuracy, 
and,  consecjuently,  in  true  authority?"  For  there  was  in 
Lewis  XIV,  and  in  the  atmosphere  about  him,  something 
which  enforced  the  cultivation  of  these  qualities  and  vir- 
tues by  all  who  came  within  the  sphere  of  the  great  reign, 
and  in  this  sense  he  may  be  said  to  have  conferred  them 
upon  them. 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  if  Bossuet  had  continued  in  the 
sermonizing  career  which  he  followed  from  1661  to  1669, 
he  would  not  have  kept  the  sceptre,  and  that  Bourdaloue 
would  have  come,  in  the  genei'al  estimation,  only  after 
and  a  little  below  him.  And  yet,  perhaps,  that  solid,  forci- 
ble, and  continuous  evenness  of  style.-  with  less  audacity 
and  splendor,  was  better  adapted  to  the  average  mass  of 


BOSSUET,  75 

hearers.     I  merely  mention  this  idea  which  I  believe  to  be 
true,  and  which  does  not  altogether  agree  with  that  which 
a  sovereignly   inexact   biographer   has    expressed:    "These 
two   rivals   in   eloquence,"  says   M.   de   Lamartine,   speak- 
ing of  Bossuet  and  Bourdaloue,  "  were  passionately  com- 
pared.    2'o  the  shame  of  the  time,  the  number  of  Bourda- 
loue's  admirers  surpassed  in  a  short  time  that  of  the  en- 
thusiastic admirers  of  Bossuet.     The  reason  of  this  prefer- 
ence of  a  cold  argumentation  to  a  sublime  eloquence  lies 
in   the  nature  of  human  things.     The   men  of   middling 
stature    have    more    resemblance   to   their   age   than   the 
titanic  men  {Vhommes  demestirees)  have  to  their  contem- 
poraries.    The  orators  who  deal    in    argument   are  more 
easily  comprehended   by  the   multitude   than    the   orators 
who  are   fired  with  enthusiasm;   one  must  have  Avings  to 
follow  the  lyric  orator.  .  .  ."     This  theory,  invented  ex- 
pressly to  give  the  greatest  glory  to  the  lyric  orators  and 
the  titanic  men,  is  here  at  fault.     M.  de  Bausset  has  re- 
marked, on  the  contrary,  as  a  kind  of  singularity,  that  it 
never  entered   any  man's  head    at  that  time  to  consider 
Bossuet  and  Bourdaloue  as  subjects  for  a  comparison,  and 
to  weigh  in  the  balance  their  respective  merits  and  genius, 
as  was  so  often  done  in  the  case  of  Corneille  and  Racine; 
or,  at  least,   if  they  were  compared,  it  was  very  seldom. 
To  the  honor,  and  not  to  the  shame  of  the  time,  the  public 
taste  and  sentiment  took  notice  of  the  difference.     Bossuet, 
in  his  higher  sphere  as  bishop,  remained  the  oracle,  the 
Doctor,  a  modern  Father  of  the  Church,  the  great  orator, 
who   appeared    on    funereal    and    majestic  occasions;   who 
.sometimes  reappeared  in  the  pulpit  at  the   monarch's  re- 
quest, or  to  solemnize  the  Assemblies  of  the  Clergy,  leav- 
ing  on    each   occasion   an    overpowering   and    ineffaceable 


76  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

recollection  of  his  eloquence.  Meanwhile  Bourdaloue  con- 
tinued to  be  for  the  age  the  usual  preacher  par  excellence, 
the  one  who  gave  a  continual  Course  of  Lectures  on  moral 
and  practical  Christianity,  and  who  distributed  the  daily 
bread  in  its  most  wholesome  form  to  all  the  faithful. 
Bossuet  has  said  somewhere,  in  one  of  his  sermons:  "  Were 
it  not  better  suited  to  the  dignity  of  this  pulpit  to  regard 
the  maxims  of  the  Gospel  as  indubitable  than  to  prove 
them  by  reasoning,  how  easily  might  I  make  you  see," 
etc.  There,  where  Bossuet  would  have  suffered  by  stoop- 
ing and  subjecting  himself  to  too  long  a  course  of  proof 
and  to  a  continuous  argumentation,  Bourdaloue,  who  had 
not  the  same  impatient  genius,  was  an  apostolic  workman 
who  was  more  efficient  in  the  long  run,  and  better  adapted 
to  his  work  by  his  constancy.  The  age  in  which  both  ap- 
peared had  the  wisdom  to  make  this  distinction,  and  to 
appreciate  each  of  them  without  opposing  one  to  the  other; 
and  to-day  those  who  glory  in  this  opposition,  and  who  so 
easily  crush  Bourdaloue  with  Bossuet,  the  man  of  talent 
with  the  man  of  genius,  because  they  think  they  are  con- 
scious themselves  of  belonging  to  the  family  of  geniuses, 
too  easily  forget  that  this  christian  eloquence  was  designed 
to  edify  and  to  nourish  still  more  than  to  please  or  to 
subdue. 

Here  it  is  just  to  say  that  in  these  Sermons  or  discourses 
preached  by  Bossuet  from  1661  to  1669  and  later, —  in 
almost  all  of  them,  there  are  admirable  passages,  which 
move  us  readers  of  to-day,  to  whatever  class  we  may 
belong,  very  differently  from  the  sermons  of  Bourdaloue. 
In  the  Pavegyric  on  Saint  Paul,  at  the  very  beginning, 
what  a  probing  of  the  subject  to  the  core,  in  its  inmost, 
deepest,  most  supernatural  part!     Paul  is  the  strunyer  the 


BOSSUET.  77 

weaker  he  feels  himself  to  he;  it  is  his  weakness  which 
makes  his  strength.  It  is  the  artless  Apostle,  endowed 
with  a  hidden  wisdom,  with  an  incomprehensible  wisdom, 
that  shocks  and  scandalizes,  and  he  will  give  him  no  dis- 
cfuise  or  artifice: 

"  He  will  go  to  that  polished  Greece,  the  mother  of  philosophers 
and  orators,  and,  in  spite  of  the  resistance  of  the  people,  he  will 
establish  there  more  churches  than  Plato  gained  disciples  by  that 
eloquence  which  was  thought  divine.  He  will  preach  Jesus  in 
Athens,  and  the  most  learned  of  its  senators  will  pass  from  the 
Areopagus  into  the  school  of  that  barbarian.  He  will  push  his 
conquests  still  farther;  he  will  humble  at  the  feet  of  the  Savior 
the  majesty  of  the  Roman  fasces  in  the  person  of  a  proconsul, 
and  he  will  make  the  judges  before  whom  he  is  cited  tremble  on 
their  tribunals.  Rome  even  shall  hear  his  voice,  and  one  day 
that  mistress  city  shall  feel  herself  much  more  honored  by  a  letter 
written  with  the  stylus  of  Paul,  than  by  so  many  famous  ha- 
rangues which  she  has  heard  from  her  Cicero. 

"What  is  the  reason  of  this,  Christians?  It  is  that  Paul  has 
means  of  persuasion  which  Greece  does  not  teach,  and  which  Rome 
has  not  learned!  A  supernatural  power,  which  is  pleased  to  exalt 
that  which  the  haughty  despise,  has  permeated  and  mingled  with 
the  august  simpUcity  of  his  words.  Hence  it  happens  that  we 
admire  in  his  admirable  Epistles  a  certain  more  than  human 
virtue  which  persuades  in  opposition  to  rules,  or  rather  which  does 
not  so  much  persuade  as  it  captivates  men's  understandings;  which 
does  not  tickle  the  ears,  but  which  directs  its  blows  right  at  the 
heart.  Just  as  we  see  a  great  river,  after  running  into  a  plain, 
retain  still  the  \aolent  and  impetuous  force  which  it  acquired  in 
the  mountains  where  it  had  its  origin,  so  the  celestial  virtue 
which  is  contamed  in  the  writings  of  Saint  Paul,  preserves  even  in 
that  simplicity  of  style  all  the  vigor  which  it  brings  from  the 
Heaven  whence  it  descends." 

There  is  nothing  to  be  said  after  such  beauties. 

Let  us  take  now  quite  a  different  kind  of  sermon, 
preached  afterward  at  the  Court,  that  upon  Amhition 
(1666),  that  upon  Honor  (1666),  and  that  upon  The  Love 
of  Pleasure    (1662);    beauties    of    the   same   kind   appear 


78  MONDAY-CHATS. 

everyvvhei-e.  Upon  ambition  and  honor,  he  says  in  the 
face  of  Lewis  XIV  everything  which  could  prevent  the 
idolatry  of  which  he  is  soon  to  be  the  object,  if  it  were 
possible  to  prevent  it.  He  seeks  by  the  example  of  a 
Nero  or  a  Nebuchadnezzar,  for  "  something  which  may 
awaken  in  the  human  heart  that  terrible  thought  of  see- 
ing nothing  above  it.  It  is  there  that  covetousness,"  he 
says,  "  goes  daily  subtleizing,  and  turning  hack,  so  to 
speak,  upon  itself.  Thence  come  unknown  vices.  .  .  . '' 
And  of  that  man,  little  in  himself,  and  ashamed  of  his 
littleness,  Avho  labors  to  increase,  to  multiply  himself,  who 
imagines  that  he  embodies  all  that  he  amasses  and  acquires, 
he  says:  "So  many  times  a  count,  so  many  times  a  lord, 
possessor  of  so  much  riches,  master  of  so  many  persons, 
member  of  so  many  councils,  and  so  of  the  rest:  however, 
let  him  multiply  himself  as  many  times  as  he  pleases,  it 
needs  but  a  single  death  to  humble  him.  Amid  this  infi- 
nite increase  which  our  vanity  imagines,  we  never  think 
of  measuring  ourselves  by  our  coffins,  which,  nevertheless, 
are  the  only  exact  measure."  It  is  the  peculiarity  of 
Bossuet  thus  to  have  at  the  first  glance  all  the  great 
ideas  which  are  the  fixed  limits  and  the  necessary  bounds 
of  things,  and  which  take  no  note  of  the  shifting  intervals 
where  the  eternal  infancy  of  man  sports  and  forgets 
itself. 

That  it  may  not  be  said  that  I  seek  in  Bossuet  only  for 
lessons  for  the  great  and  the  powerful,  I  will  add  that  in 
this  same  sermon  upon  Honor,  in  which  he  enumerates  and 
considers  the  different  kinds  of  vanities,  he  does  not  for- 
get the  men  of  letters,  the  poets,  men  who  in  their  way 
contend  for  renown  and  empire:  "These,  who  pride  them- 
selves on  their  intellectual  gifts,  the  learned,  the  men  of 


BOSSUET.  79 

letters,  the  wits,  think  they  are  more  rational  than  those 
I  have  named.  In  truth,  Christians,  they  are  worthy  of 
being  distinguished  from  the  rest,  and  the}^  form  one  of 
the  world's  finest  ornaments.  But  who  can  endure  them 
when,  as  soon  as  they  are  conscious  of  a  little  talent,  they 
weary  all  ears  with  their  facts  and  their  sayings,  and  be- 
cause they  know  how  to  arrange  words,  to  measure  a 
verse,  or  to  round  a  period,  think  they  have  a  right  to 
be  heard  forever,  and  to  decide  everything  authoritative- 
ly? 0  rectitude  of  life,  0  purltij  of  morals,  0  moderation 
of  the  ixissioHs,  rich  and  true  ornaments  of  the  rational 
nature,  when  shall  we  learn  to  prize  you?  .  .  ."  Eternal 
Poetr}'-,  the  source,  support,  and  superior  rule  of  true 
talents,  behold  yourself  recognized  incidentally  in  a  ser- 
mon of  Bossuet  at  the  very  moment  when  Despreaux  was 
trying  to  recognize  you  in  his  way,  in  his  Satires.  But 
from  how  much  higher  a  region  does  the  spring  run,  and 
in  how  much  more  stable  a  region  does  it  originate,  in 
Bossuet  than  in  the  Horaces  and  the  Despreaux! 

As  a  literary  peculiarity,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  in  these 
Sermons  of  Bossuet  there  are  some  very  fine  passages 
which  one  finds  repeated  even  two  or  three  times  in  dif- 
ferent discourses.  From  these  passages  I  shall  cite  a  com- 
plete moral  dissertation  upon  the  inconstancy  of  human 
affairs,  and  the  freaks  of  fortune,  which  sports  on  eveiy 
occasion  with  all  the  wisest  and  most  prudent  precau- 
tions: '•  Use  the  utmost  possible  precaution,  never  will 
you  keep  pace  with  its  caprices;  when  you  think  you  are 
fortified  on  one  side,  disgrace  will  come  upon  another; 
make  all  the  other  parts  secure,  and  the  edifice  will  fail 
at  the  foundations;  if  the  foundation  is  solid,  a  thunder- 
bolt   will    come   from    the    sky   and    overturn    the    whole 


80  MOXDAY-OHATS. 

structure  from  top  to  bottom."  This  eloquent  common- 
place reappears  in  the  third  sermon  on  All  Saints'  Day, 
Avhich  I  have  noticed,  in  the  sermon  on  the  Love  of  Pleas- 
ure, and,  with  some  variation,  in  that  on  Ainhition:  "0 
man,  do  not  deceive  thyself,  the  future  teems  with  events 
too  strange,  and  loss  and  ruin  affect  the  fortunes  of  men 
in  too  many  ways,  to  allow  of  their  being  completely  pre- 
vented. You  dam  up  the  water  on  one  side,  it  works 
through  on  the  other,  it  bubbles  up  even  from  under- 
ground. .  .  ."  After  all,  Bossuet  is  an  orator:  however 
little  he  cultivates  his  art,  he  possesses  it,  and,  like  a  De- 
mosthenes, knows  all  about  its  practice;  this  fine  passage, 
which  looks  so  abrupt  and  sudden,  he  well  knows  to  be 
fine;  he  keeps  it  in  reserve,  to  be  repeated  on  occasion. 
We  observe  also,  even  in  his  sermons  delivered  at  the 
great  epoch,  some  expressions,  not  obsolete,  but  peculiarly 
energetic,  which  are  not  in  current  use:  "Our  delight- 
fid  age  {clelicieux)  which  cannot  endure  the  hardship  of 
the  Cross";  for  our  age  which  is  fojtd  of  delights  {ami  des 
delices).  "That  is  to  wish  in  some  sense,  to  desert  the 
Court,  in  order  to  combat  ambition.'"  Deserter,  that  is  to 
say,  decaster,  rendre  deserte  (solitudinein  facere).  "  There 
is  this  difference  between  the  reason  and  the  senses,  that 
the  senses  make  their  impression  first;  their  operation  is 
prompt,  their  attack  blunt  and  surprising.''  Surprenante 
is  used  here  in  a  proper  and  physical  sense,  and  not  in 
the  figurative  sense  of  astonishing  or  exciting  wonder. 
But  pardon  me  for  dwelling  on  these  academic  details  in 
the  presence  of  Bossuet. 

Tn  the  first  years  of  his  residence  at  Paris,  he  pro- 
nounced the  first  of  his  peculiar  Funeral  Orations.  We 
have   those   which    he   delivered    on    the    death    of    father 


BOSSITET.  81 

Bourgoing,  the  head  of  the  Oratory  (1662),  and  on  the 
death  of  Nicholas  Cornet,  grand-master  of  Navarre,  and 
the  cherished  master  of  Bossuet  in  particular  (1663). 
There  are  beauties  in  these  two  discourses;  a  fine  pas- 
sage upon  the  establishment  of  the  Oratory,  is  often 
quoted  from  the  Funeral  Oration  on  father  Bourgoing. 
In  the  Funeral  Oration  upon  M.  Nicholas  Cornet,  the 
questions  of  grace  and  free-will  which  then  agitated  the 
church  under  the  names  of  Jansenism  and  Molinism,  are 
admirably  defined,  and  Bossuet,  by  the  free  way  in  which 
he  handles  them,  shows  how  far  he  is  disconnected  from 
parties,  and  how  far  he  soars  above  them.  The  Gallican 
arbiter,  in  these  perilous  matters,  is  found.  However, 
that  which  strikes  us  in  these  two  Funeral  Orations,  espe- 
cially in  the  last,  is  a  remarkable  lack  of  harmony  be- 
tween the  style  and  the  subject.  We  who  do  not  belong 
to  the  house  of  Navarre,  cannot  be  so  enthusiastic  about 
that  glory  of  Nicholas  Cornet,  or  sympathize  with  the  apos- 
trophe to  his  great  Manes.  Bossuet  I'equires  large  and 
lofty  themes;  meanwhile  till  they  come  to  him,  he  mag- 
nifies and  heightens  those  which  he  handles;  but  some 
disproportion  appears.  He  was  thundering  a  little  in  the 
void  at  those  moments,  or  rather  in  too  narrow  a  place; 
his  voice  was  too  strong  for  its  organ. 

He  was  to  be  more  at  ease,  and  to  feel  more  at  liberty, 
in  celebrating  the  queen,  Anne  of  Austria,  whose  Funeral 
Oration  he  pronounced  some  years  after;  but,  singular 
thing!  that  discourse  in  which  Bossuet  must  have  poured 
out  the  gratitude  of  his  heart,  and  already  displayed  his 
historical  riches,  has  never  been  printed. 

Finally  the  death  of  the  queen  of  England  came  to 
offer  him  (1669)  the  grandest  and  most  majestic  of  themes. 


82  MONDAY-CHATS. 

He  needed  the  fall  and  the  rastoration  of  thrones,  the  revo- 
lution of  empires,  all  the  varied  fortunes  assembled  in  a 
single  life,  and  weighing  upon  the  same  head;  the  eagle 
needed  the  vast  depth  of  the  heavens,  and,  below,  all  the 
abysses  and  storms  of  the  ocean.  But  let  us  note  also  a 
service  which  Lewis  XIV  and  his  reign  rendered  to  Bos- 
suet:  he  would  have  had  these  great  themes  equally  amid 
the  disastrous  epochs  and  through  the  Frondes  and  civil 
discords,  but  they  would  have  come  to  him  scattered,  in 
some  way,  and  without  bounds:  Lewis  XIV  and  his  reign 
gave  him  a  frame  in  which  these  vast  subjects  were  limited 
and  fixed  without  being  contracted.  In  the  august  yet 
well-defined  epoch  in  which  he  spoke,  Bossuet,  without 
losing  any  of  his  breadth  or  any  of  the  audacities  of  his 
talent  of  far-seeing  observation,  found  everywhere  about 
him  that  support  (point  d'appui),  that  security,  and  that 
encouragement  or  warning,  of  which  talent  and  even 
genius  have  need.  Bossuet,  no  doubt,  put  his  trust, 
before  all  things  else,  in  Heaven;  but,  as  an  orator,  he 
redoubled  his  authority,  his  calm  strength,  by  feeling 
that  under  him,  and  at  the  moment  when  he  pressed  it 
with  his  foot,  the  earth  of  France  did  not  tremble. 

I  am  stopping  only  at  the  threshold  of  Bossuet:  other 
publications,  I  hope,  will  furnish  me  with  new  opportuni- 
ties, and  will  provoke  me  to  follow  him  in  some  of  his 
other  works.  I  could  have  spoken  with  more  detail  of 
M.  Poujoulat's  book;  the  author  would  have  desired  it, 
and  certainly  he  merited  as  much  for  his  useful  and  con- 
scientious labor.  But  he  will  pardon  me  for  not  entering 
with  him  into  discussions  which  would  be  secondary:  I 
commend  the  general  spirit  of  his  book,  and  I  approve 
of   its   general    execution,    too    warmly    to    be    willing    to 


BOSSUET.  83 

enter  upon  a  foi-mal    criticism    of   particular    parts  of   it. 
On  this  occasion  then,  in  the  presence  of  so  great  a  sub- 
ject, and    at   the    foot  of  the  statue,   let  it  suffice  me  to 
have  made  with  a  timid  chisel  what  T  call  a  first  hJow. 
June  3,  1854. 


MASSILLON. 


WE  lack  a  history  of  the  life  and  works  of  Massilloii; 
it  would  be  a  happy  theme.  We  have  already 
many  anecdotes,  which  it  would  be  necessary,  however,  to 
verify  and  arrange  in  order;  continuous  researches  would 
infallibly  yield  some  results.  A  large  number  of  Mas- 
sill  on's  letters  were  abstracted  at  the  time  of  his  death; 
would  it  be  possible  to  recover  them?  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  prepare  a  history  of  his  principal  sermons,  and  to 
fix  their  dates,  with  the  memorable  circumstances  connected 
with  them.  A  complete  Study  on  Massillon,  would  naturally 
become  a  study  of  eloquence  itself  in  the  last  half  of  the 
reign  of  Lewis  XIV;  we  should  there  follow  that  beauti- 
ful stream  of  sacred  eloquence  during  all  its  magnificent 
course ;  we  should  mark  its  changes  as  it  flows  along  from 
the  point  where  it  becomes  less  rapid,  less  impetuous,  less 
resounding,  whex'e  it  loses  the  austere  grandeur  or  the 
incomparable  majesty  given  to  it  by  its  banks,  and  where, 
in  a  landscape  richer  in  appearance,  vaster  in  extent,  but 
less  sharply  defined,  it  broadens  and  insensibly  mingles 
with  other  waters  as  at  the  approaches  of  the  mouth. 

The  name  and  the  labors  of  Massillon  correspond  to 
these  two  periods,  I  may  say  to  that  of  the  greatest  mag- 
nificence and  to  that  of  the  later  profusion.  Jean-Baptiste 
Massillon,  born  at  Hycires  in  Provence  on  the  twenty-fourth 
of  June,  1663,  son  of  a  notar}'  of  the  place,  showed  early 


MASSILLON.  85 

those  graces  of  mind  and  person,  those  natural  gifts  of 
speech  and  of  persuasion  which  have  distinguished  so 
many  eminent  men  born  in  those  districts,  and  which 
seem  an  interrupted  heritage  of  ancient  Greece.  He 
began  his  studies  at  Marseilles  with  the  Priests  of  the 
Oratory.  It  is  related  that  when  a  child,  after  hearing  a 
sermon,  nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to  gather  his 
schoolfellows  about  him  and  repeat  to  them  or  reconstruct 
the  sermon  which  they  had  just  heard.  He  entered  the 
congregation  of  the  Oratory  at  Aix  on  the  tenth  of  October, 
1681,  and  went,  the  next  year,  to  study  theology  at  Aries; 
then  he  became  a  professor  in  the  colleges  of  Pezenas  and 
Montbrison.  Everything  about  him  gave  evidence  of  su- 
perior talents  and  showed  that  he  was  destined  to  be  dis- 
tinguished, and  it  has  never  been  well  explained,  why, 
about  this  time,  he  wrote  to  the  head  of  the  Oratory  of 
Saint-Martha,  that  "  his  talents  and  inclination  unfitted 
him  for  the  pulpit,  and  he  believed  that  he  was  better 
qualified  for  a  Chair  of  Philosophy  or  of  Theology."  It 
was  no  doubt  but  a  passing  distaste  which  made  him 
speak  thus.  Here  comes  in,  or  slips  in,  a  delicate  ques- 
tion, touching  which  we  have  only  obscure  answers.  AVas 
young  Massillon  led  astray  by  his  passions?  One  of  his 
biographers  (Audin)  has  given  some  details  on  this  sub- 
ject which  he  says  he  had  from  an  authentic  source;  ac- 
cording to  them  Massillon,  in  his  early  youth,  would  have 
been  embroiled  with  his  superiors  through  some  errors  of 
conduct,  if  he  had  not  been  quick  to  seek  a  reconciliation. 
I  have  found  in  the  manuscript  notes  of  the  Troyes  Li- 
brary a  charge  of  the  same  kind,  but  coming  from  a 
purely  Jansenist   source.*     There   was   nothing,  however, 

♦Chaudon,  in  a  letter  to  tlie  learned  bibliographer  Barbier,  says  the  same 
thing  (Bulletin  dn  Bibliophile,  1839,  p.  017). 


86  MONDAY-CHATS. 

in    this    which    was   not    simple    and    natural:    Massillon, 
young,    beautiful,    endowed    with    sensibility    and    tender- 
ness, resembling   Racine  somewhat  in   his  genius  and  af- 
fections, might  easily  have  had,  in  those  lively  years,  some 
slips,   some    falls   or   relapses,    of    which    he    immediately 
repented,  and  it  is  to  these  first  irregularities,   perhaps, 
and  to  his   efforts  to  triumph  over   them,   that  we   must 
attribute  his  retreat  to  the  penitential  abbey  of  Septfonts. 
When  he  was  asked  at  a  later  day  where  he  had  obtained 
his  profound  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  the  different 
passions,  he  had  a  right  to  reply:  "From  my  own  heart." 
Whilst  he  was  professor  of  theology  at  Vienna,  he  was 
ordained   as  priest  in  1692;   he   made  trial  of  the  pulpit, 
delivered   the  funeral   oration   of  Henri  de  Villars,   arch- 
bishop  of   the   diocese,   and   went   to   Lyons  and  delivered 
that  of  the  archbishop  M.  de  Villeroy,  who  died  in  1693, 
These    first   successes   seemed    rather  to    frighten   than   to 
embolden  him:  his  departure  from  the  abbey  of  Septfonts 
did  not  take  place  till  some  time  afterward.      His  stay  at 
that  abbey,  which  was  one  of  the  most  austere  and  reformed 
after  the  pattern  of  La  Trappe,  became  one  of  Massillon's 
most  pleasing  recollections:  he  had  there  tasted  the  honey 
of  solitude  in  all  its  sweetness.      He  thought  seriously  of 
burying  himself  there,  of  taking  there  the  vow  of  silence. 
Toward  the  end  of  his  life,  he  loved  to  transport  himself 
there  in  imagination,  and  he  sometimes  regretfully  remem- 
bered that  cell  where  he  had  passed  one  or  two  happy  sea- 
sons in  the  fervor  of  a  mystic  peace.* 

*  This  sojourn  of  Massillon  at  Septfonts,  at  least  as  a  novitiate,  has  been 
denied  (Account  l)y  M.  Godfrey,  preceding  the  Select  Works  of  Massillon,  1868). 
This  should  be  noted  by  the  future  biographer.  The  abbe  IJayle,  a  recent 
biographer  of  Massillon,  appears  not  at  all  to  doubt  the  fact  itseii  of  that 
retreat  to  Septfonta. 


MASSILLON.  87 

The  Father  of  La  Tour,  having  become  superieur  general 
of  the  Oratoiy,  made  him  enter  the  congregation,  and  em- 
ployed him  at  Lyons,  then  at  Paris  at  the  Saint-Magloire 
seminary,  where  he  made  him  one  of  the  directors.  It 
was  there  that  Massillon  began  to  take  his  proper  rank 
by  his  Lectures,  the  most  substantial,  or,  at  least,  the 
severest  of  his  works.  His  calling  as  a  speaker  was 
henceforth  too  manifest  for  him  to  think  of  avoiding  it. 
He  went,  in  1698,  to  preach  the  Lent  Sermons  at  Mont- 
pelier,  and  finally  he  was  called,  in  1669,  to  preach  at 
Lent  in  Paris,  in  the  church  of  the  Oratory,  on  Saint- 
Honore  street.      He  was  then  nearly  thirty  years  old. 

His  success  was  great,  and  moved  the  town.  Lewis 
XIY  wished  that  same  year  (1699)  to  hear  the  orator  at 
Court,  and  Massillon  preached  there  at  the  Advent.  Mas- 
sillon preached  a  second  time  at  Court  in  1701,  and  this 
time  it  was  at  Lent;  he  preached  there  again  at  Lent 
in  1704.*  These  first  sermons  of  father  Massillon  (as  one 
called  him  then),  his  Avent,  his  Grand  Careme,  form  the 
most  considerable  and  the  finest  portion  of  his  oratorical 
work.  The  Pet.it  Carmie,  which  is  more  celebrated,  and 
which  he  preached  in  1718  before  Lewis  XV,  then  a  child, 
belongs  already  to  another  epoch  and  is  slightly  different 
in  style.  After  having  at  first  greatly  praised  this  Petit 
Careme,  and  preferred  it  to  all  the  rest,  while  it  was  a 
novelty,  the  public  has  since  been  a  little  too  much  inclined 
to  sacrifice  it  to  the  oldest  works  of  Massillon.      This  is  a 

*  The  father  Bougerel,  in  his  accurate  Account  of  Massillon  {Memoires 
pay?-  senir  a  rHistoire  de  2}l»sleurs  Hammes  lllustres  de  Provence),  speaks 
only  of  the  Careme  of  170-1,  preached  by  Massillon  at  the  Court,  and  says 
nothinc;  of  the  Careme  of  1701.  All  these  points  need  clearing  up.  The 
abbe  Bayle  has  already  cleared  up  some  of  them  in  his  Vie  de  Massillon 
(18t)7);  the  abbe  Blampignon.  in  his  edition  of  the  works  of  the  great  ser- 
monizer,  promises  ub  the  rest. 


88  MONDAY-CHATS. 

point  to  be  examined  by  itself.  Whatever  may  be  the 
truth  of  the  matter,  Massillon  manifested  all  his  force 
and  all  his  beauty  as  a  sacred  orator  during  that  first 
epoch  from  1669  to  1704,  when  the  two  centuries  met: 
he  showed  that  the  great  reign  lasted  always,  and  that 
even  in  that  final  autumn  the  succession  of  masterpieces 
still  continued. 

Massillon's  discourses  have  this  peculiarity  in  a  literary 
point  of  view,  that  they  were  never  printed  during  his 
life-time;  the  only  one  of  his  discourses  which  he  pub- 
lished himself,  and  regarding  which  he  saw  himself  criti- 
cized, was  his  funeral  oration  on  the  prince  of  Conti  in 
1709.  With  the  exception  of  this  piece,  Massillon's  entire 
works,  including  his  Petit  Careine,  were  presented  to  the 
public  for  the  first  time  only  after  his  death,  and  then 
through  the  efforts  of  his  nephew,  in  1745.  I  am  de- 
ceived: an  attempt  had  been  made  in  his  life-time  to 
publish  an  imperfect  edition  of  his  works,  gathered  from 
notes  (there  was  no  stenography  then);  it  was  by  this 
imperfect  and  unauthentic  edition  that  the  critics  were 
obliged  to  judge  him.  When  the  edition  prepared  by 
Massillon's  nephew  appeared,  which  was  an  exact  trans- 
cript of  the  manuscript,  it  won  universal  approval,  and 
satisfied  a  great  desire  of  christians  and  people  of  taste. 
It  is  said  that  it  netted  the  nephew  ten  thousand  crowns. 
It  is  certain  that  Massillon,  during  the  years  of  his  re- 
tirement and  when  at  leisure  as  bishop,  had  carefully 
revised  his  sermons,  had  retouched,  and  perhaps  partially 
rewritten  them.  The  Jansenists  accused  him  of  having 
changed  the  doctrinal  statements  in  some  pas.sages;  it  is 
])n)bal)lc  that  Ik;  contented  himself  with  simply  making 
them    more    consistent  and  accurate,  leaving  their  primi- 


MASSJLLON.  89 

tive  form  and  spirit  unaltered.  A  writer  of  our  day, 
who  has  spoken  of  Massillon  with  a  rare  partiality,*  has 
pointed  out  in  this  very  edition  of  1745,  which  has  be- 
come the  pattern  for  all  the  others,  some  phrases,  which 
it  is  difficult  not  to  regard  as  typographical  errors,  and 
he  has  expressed  a  desire  that  the  text  may  be  again 
compared  with  the  manuscript.  Meanwhile,  saving  some 
spots  which  disappear  in  the  richness  of  the  tissue,  and, 
as  it  were,  in  the  folds  of  the  stuff,  we  possess  a  Massillon 
sufficiently  complete  and  sufficiently  finished  for  us  to 
enjoy  it  fully  and  confidently. 

When  Massillon  appeared,  Bourdaloue  was  ending  his 
career;  Bossuet,  as  a  preacher  of  Sermons,  had  closed  his 
at  the  very  moment  when  Bourdaloue  began.  Thus  these 
great  lio-hts  had  not  to  rival  nor  to  eclipse  each  other, 
but  came  in  peaceful  succession  like  a  series  of  fruitful 
seasons  or  like  the  hours  of  a  splendid  day.  The  innova- 
tion of  Massillon,  coming  after  Bourdaloue,  was  the 
introduction  of  pathos  and  a  livelier  perception  of  human 
passions  into  the  economy  of  the  religious  discourse,  and 
a  slight  softening  of  the  sacred  word  without  weakening 
it.  That  is  the  effect  which  a  majority  of  his  Advent 
Sermons  and  those  of  his  Grand  Cureine  will  have  upon 
any  one  who  is  able  to  read  them  in  a  proper  frame  of 
mind.  Let  any  one  (to  give  himself  their  full  impres- 
sion) form  an  idea  of  the  plan,  the  auditory,  and  the 
orator:  "Does  it  not  seem  to  jou.,'"  said  those  who  had 
heard  him,  some  years  afterward,  "  does  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  you  see  him  still  in  one  of  our  pulpits,  with 
that  artless  look,  that  modest  bearing,  those  eyes  meekly 
dropped,  that  careless  gesture,  that  affectionate  tone,  that 

*M.  de  Saci,  iu  an  article  in  the  Journal  des  Debats.  May  4,  1852. 

4* 


90  MONDAY-CHATS. 

appearance  of  a  man  deeply  moved, —  illuminating  the 
minds  of  his  hearers,  and  stirring  their  hearts  with  the 
tenderest  emotions?  He  did  not  thunder  in  the  pulpit, 
he  did  not  IViirhten  his  hearers  bv  the  violence  of  his 
outbursts  and  the  explosion  of  his  voice;  no,  but  by  his 
sweet  persuasion,  he  poured  into  them,  as  if  naturally, 
the  sentiments  which  melt  the  heart  and  which  manifest 
themselves  by  tears  and  silence.  There  were  no  artificial, 
far-fetched,  unreal  flowers;  no,  the  flowers  sprang  up 
under  his  feet  without  his  seeking  for  them,  almost  with- 
out his  perceiving  them;  they  were  so  simple,  so  natural, 
that  they  seemed  to  escape  from  him  against  his  will, 
and  to  count  for  nothing  in  his  nnimated  eloquence.  The 
hearer  was  not  aware  of  them,  except  by  the  enchant- 
ment which  ravished  him  from  himself.*" 

Massillon  in  the  pulpit  had  scarcely  any  gestures:  that 
dropping  of  the  eye  as  he  began,  which  he  kept  dropped 
habitually,  till  he  afterward,  at  rare  intervals,  raised  it, 
and  east  it  over  the  auditory,  constituted  in  his  case  the 
finest  of  gestures;  he  had,  says  the  abbe  Maury,  an  elo- 
qiiciif  pije.  In  his  exordiums,  which  were  alwa3'S  happy, 
there  was  something  that  arrested  the  attention,  as  on 
the  day  when  he  pronounced  the  funeral  oration  of  Lewis 
XIV,  when,  after  having  silently  run  his  eye  over  all 
those  magnificent  funeral  trappings,  he  began  with  these 
words:  "God  alone  is  great,  my  brethren!  .  .  ."  or  as 
on  that  day  also,  when  preaching  for  the  first  time  before 
that  same  Lewis,  on  AH  Saints'  Day,  and  taking  for  his 
text:   Blessed  are  fliose  wJio  weep!  he  began  thus: 

*This  lively  and  infreniou8  description  may  be  found  in  the  reply  oC  .M. 
Lann;uet,  archbishop  of  Lens,  to  the  Discourse  on  ilu,'  reception  of  the  Uuke 
of  Niveruais,  who  succeeded  Massillon  at  the  French  Academy  (session  of 
February  4.  17•13^ 


MASSILLON.  91 


"  c; 


«ire, 

"  If  the  world  should  speak  in  place  of  Jesus  Christ,  it  would 
not,  doubtless,  address  to  your  majesty  the  same  language. 

"  'Blessed  is  the  prince,'  it  would  say  to  you,  'who  has  never 
fought  without  being  victorious;  who  has  seen  so  many  Powers 
armed  against  him,  only  to  give  them  a  glorious  peace  [the  peace 
of  Rijswick),  and  who  has  always  been  superior  both  to  danger 
and  to  victory! 

"  '  Blessed  is  the  prince  who,  during  the  course  of  a  long  and 
flourishing  reign,  enjoys  at  leisure  the  fruits  of  his  glory,  the  love 
of  his  people,  the  respect  of  his  enemies,  the  admiration  of  the 
world  .  .  .   ! ' 

"Thus  would  the  world  speak;  but,  sire,  Jesus  Christ  does  not 
speak  like  the  world. 

"'Blessed,'  he  says  to  you,  'is  not  he  who  is  the  admiration 
of  his  age,  but  he  who  is  cliiefly  occupied  with  the  age  to  come, 
and  who  lives  in  contempt  of  himself  and  of  all  that  passes.  .  .  .' 

" '  Blessed  is  not  he  whose  reign  and  deeds  are  destined  to  be 
immortalized  by  history  in  the  memories  of  men,  but  he  whose 
tears  shall  have  effaced  the  history  of  his  sins  from  the  memory 
of  God  himself,'  etc.  etc." 

We  see  the  double  development  of  the  subject,  and  with 
what  delicate  and  majestic  art  Massillon,  who  appeared 
for  the  first  time  before  Lewis  XIV,  and  who  came  pre- 
ceded by  a  reputation  for  austerity,  contrived  to  mingle 
compliment  and  homage  in  the  same  lesson. 

A  very  acute  critic  has  said  of  him:  '"The  plan  oi 
Massillon's  Sermons  is  mean,  but  their  bas-reliefs  are 
superb."  I  know,  also,  that  professional  men,  who  have 
made  a  profound  study  of  these  pulpit  orators,  put  Bour- 
daloue  very  nuich  above  Massillon  in  respect  to  the  entire 
arrangement  and  plan  of  a  discourse.  Nevertheless,  the 
plans  of  Massillon's  Sermons  do  not  appear  to  me  particu- 
larly mean;  they  are  very  simple,  and  this,  perhaps,  is 
what  is  most  fitting  in  such  compositions;  the  principal 
and  the  most    effective    excellence  consists  in  the  fullness 


92  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

of  the  practical  exposition.  But  Massillon  has  this  art  of 
exposition  in  the  highest  degree;  one  might  almost  say 
that  it  is  just  there  nearly  that  all  his  talent  lies.  To 
take  a  text  of  Scripture,  and  expound  it  morally  accord- 
ing to  our  actual  needs,  to  unfold  it  and  draw  it  out  in 
all  its  meanings  by  translating  it  for  us  into  a  language 
which  is  ours,  and  which  is  suited  to  all  the  peculiarities 
of  our  habits  and  of  our  feelings,  to  give  us  lively  pictures, 
which,  without  being  portraits,  shall  yet  not  be  vague 
commonplaces,  and  to  reconcile  nicety  and  delicacy  of 
style  with  the  use  of  general  and  noI)le  terms, —  it  is  in 
this  that  Massillon  excels.  He  seems  to  have  been  born 
expressly  to  justify  the  saying  of  Cicero:  ''sioinna  aiitem 
laits  eJoqiientke  est,  ainplificare  rem  ornando.  .  .  .  The 
height  and  perfection  of  elocjuence  is  to  amplify  a  subject 
bv  adorninor  and  decorating  it."  He  is  an  unrivalled 
master  of  that  kind  of  amplification  which  Quintilian  has 
defined  "  a  certain  heaping  up  of  thoughts  and  expressions 
which  conspire  to  produce  the  same  impression:  for,  al- 
though neither  the  thoughts  nor  the  expressions  form  a 
gradual  climax,  yet  the  object  is  found  to  be  magnified 
and,  as  it  were,  heightened  by  the  very  assemblage," — only 
take  away  from  this  definition  the  painful  and  disagree- 
able effect  of  that  word  heapiiuj  (conrjen'es).  Every  exposi- 
tion in  Massillon,  every  oratorical  strophe,  is  composed  of 
a  series  of  thoughts  and  phrases,  commonly  very  short, 
that  reproduce  themselves,  springing  one  out  of  the  other, 
calling  to  each  other,  succeeding  each  other,  having  no 
sharp  points,  no  imagery  that  is  either  too  bold  or  too 
commonplace,  and  moving  along  with  rhythm  and  melody 
as  parts  of  one  and  the  same  whole.  It  is  a  group  in 
motion;  it  is  a  natural,  harmonious  concert,     liuflbn,  who 


MASSILLON.  98 

regarded  Massillon  a>  the  first  of  our  prose-writers,  seems 
to  have  had  him  in  mind,  when,  in  his  Discoui'se  upon 
Style,  he  said:  "In  order  to  write  well,  it  is  necessary, 
then,  to  be  fully  possessed  of  one's  subject;  it  is  necessar}^ 
to  reflect  upon  it  enough  to  see  clearly  the  order  of  one's 
thoughts,  and  to  connect  them  together  in  a  continuous 
chain,  each  link  of  which  represents  an  idea:  and  when 
one  takes  his  pen,  he  should  conduct  it  along  this  first 
outline,  without  permitting  it  to  stray  from  it,  without 
pressing  it  too  unequally,  without  giving  it  any  other 
movement  than  that  which  may  be  determined  by  the 
sj^aee  it  is  to  run  over.  It  is  in  this  that  severity  of  style 
consists."  In  Massillon  this  natural  manner  had  no  ap- 
pearance of  severity,  but  rather  an  appearance  of  abun- 
dance and  overflow,  like  that  of  a  stream  running  down  a 
gentle  declivity,  the  accumulated  waters  of  which  fall  b}^ 
their  own  weight.  Massillon,  more  than  any  other  orator, 
has  resources  for  the  fruitful  development  of  moral  themes; 
and  the  utmost  grace  and  ease  of  diction  spontaneously 
unite  in  his  style,  so  that  his  long  and  full  period  is  com- 
posed of  a  series  of  members  and  of  reduplications  united 
by  a  kind  of  insensible  tie,  like  a  large,  full  wave  which 
is  composed  of  a  series  of  little  waves. 

Massillon  the  orator,  if  we  could  have  heard  him,  would 
certainly  have  ravished,  penetrated,  melted  us;  read  to- 
day, he  does  not  produce  the  same  effects,  and  considered 
as  a  writer,  he  is  not  admired  by  all  in  the  same  degree. 
It  is  not  given  to  all  minds  to  feel  and  to  relish  equalh- 
the  peculiar  beauties  and  excellences  of  Massillon.  To  like 
Massillon,  to  enjoy  him  sincerely  and  without  weariness, 
is  a  quality  and  almo>t  a  peculiarity  of  certain  minds, 
which  may  serve  to  define  them.     He  will  love  Massillon, 


o 


94  MONIl  AY-CHATS. 

who  loves  what  is  just  and  noble  bettei-  than  what  is  new, 
who  prefers  elegant  simplicity  to  a  slightly  rough  grand- 
eur; who,  in  the  intellectual  order,  is  pleased  before  all 
things  with  rich  fertility  and  culture,  with  ornate  sobri- 
ety, with  ingenious  amplification,  with  a  certain  calmness 
and  a  certain  repose  even  in  motion,  and  who  is  never 
weary  of  those  eternal  commonplaces  of  morality  which 
humanity  will  never  exhaust.  Massillon  will  please  him 
who  has  a  certain  sensitive  choid  in  his  heart,  and  who 
prefers  Racine  to  all  the  other  poets;  in  whose  ear 
there  is  a  certain  vague  instinct  of  harmony  and  of  sweet- 
ness which  makes  him  love  certain  words  even  in  a  super- 
abundance. He  will  please  those  who  have  none  of  the 
impatience  of  a  taste  too  superb  or  too  delicate,  nor  the 
quick  fevers  of  an  ardent  admiration;  who  have  no  thirst 
for  surprise  or  discovery,  who  love  to  sail  upon  smooth 
rivers,  who  prefer  to  the  impetuous  Rhone,  to  the  Erid- 
anus  as  the  poet  has  pictured  it,  or  even  to  the  Rhine  in 
its  rugged  majesty,  the  tranquil  course  of  the  French 
river,  of  the  royal  Seine  washing  the  more  and  more  wid- 
ening banks  of  a  flourishing  Normandy. 

Such  is  the  impression  which  Massillon  has  made  lapon 
me,  as  I  have  read  and  studied  him  to-day  in  his  ever- 
beautiful,  but  regular  and  calm  pages.  Let  us  never 
forget,  when  reading  them,  that  he  is  wanting  who  ani- 
mated them  by  his  temperate  action  and  by  his  personal- 
ity, he  whose  voice  had  all  the  tones  of  the  soul,  and  of 
whom  the  great  actor.  Baron,  said,  after  hearing  him: 
"There  is  an  orator!  we  are  but  comedians."  Let  us 
never  forget  that  in  that  eloquence,  so  copious  and  so 
I'fdnnliled,  each  of  his  hearers,  on  account  of  the  very  di- 
versity  of  expies.^iou.--    u^jon    eal-h   point,    found   the   shade 


MASSILLON".  95 

of  language  which  suited  him,  the  echo  which  responded 
to  his  own  heart:  that  that  which  seems  to  us  to-day 
foreseen  and  monotonous,  because  our  eyes,  as  in  a 
great  alley  or  a  long  avenue,  runs  in  an  instant  from 
one  end  of  the  page  to  the  other,  had  then  an  increasing 
and  a  surer  effect  from  the  very  continuity,  when  the 
whole,  iVom  the  height  of  the  pulpit,  was  gathered  together, 
and  slowly  suspended,  growing  larger  as  it  was  unrolled, 
and  thus,  as  was  said  of  the  ancient  eloquence,  fell  at  last 
like  snow. 

Action,  it  is  very  necessary  to  bear  in  mind,  can  never 
be  the  same  in  preaching  as  in  the  other  kinds  of  dis- 
course; it  cannot,  without  inconvenience  or  eccentricity, 
pass  certain  limits  which  it  is  well  to  know  always  how 
to  attain  without  going  beyond  them.  In  a  Lent  sermon 
upon  Trifing  Faults,  I  find  an  example  of  that  manner 
which  Massillon  employed  so  well  to  associate  his  hearers 
with  his  descriptions,  and  to  interest  them  in  that  which 
might  appear  to  be  only  a  general  enumeration.  He  at- 
tempts to  show  that  there  are  no  trifling  faults,  that  he 
who  despises  small  ones  will  little  by  little  fall  into  great 
ones;  he  then  turns  to  his  hearer,  he  takes  him  to  task; 
he  reminds  each  one  of  his  own  recollections:  "  Do  you 
remember  how  you  fell  .  .  ?"  And  here  comes  one  of 
those  developments  of  which  I  have  spoken,  and  in  which 
the  w'hole  art  of  Massillon  is  revealed:  "One  may  some- 
times,'' says  Voltaire,  "  heap  up  metaphors,  one  upon  an- 
other; but  then  it  is  necessary  that  they  should  be  well 
distinguished,  and  that  your  object  shoiild  always  be  seen 
represented  under  different  images."  He  cites  an  example 
from  Massillon;  he  might  also  have  properly  cited  the  fol- 
lowing: 


9()  MONDA-Y-CHATS. 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  fell?  ...  Go  back  to  the  first 
beginning  of  your  irregularities,  and  you  will  find  it  in  the  most 
trivial  failings;  a  pleasant  sentiment  thoughtlessly  rejected;  a 
dangerous  place  too  often  frequented;  a  doubtful  liberty  too 
often  taken;  practices  of  piety  omitted;  the  source  of  moral  dis- 
orders is  almost  imperceptible;  the  stream  which  sprang  from  it 
has  inundated  all  the  soil  of  your  heart;  it  was  at  first  the  little 
cloud  which  Elias  saw,  and  which  has  since  covered  the  whole  sky 
of  your  soul;  it  was  that  small  stone  which  Daniel  saw  descend 
from  the  mountain,  and  which,  since  become  an  enormous  mass, 
has  overthrown  and  broken  God's  image  in  you;  it  was  a  little 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  which  has  since  grown  like  a  great  tree, 
and  produced  so  much  deadly  fruit;  it  was  a  little  leaven,"  etc. 

In  the  whole  course  of  this  exposition,  it  is  impossible 
to  stop  and  put  a  period  at  any  place;  there  is  but  a 
single  and  unique  thought,  which  runs  out  into  manifold 
branches,  and  assumes  various  colors.  Massillon,  in  our 
literature,  is  the  author  who  has  reached  the  highest 
perfection  in  this  kind  of  harmonious  period. 

But  he  does  not  stop  here;  so  far  lie  has  only  begun 

to  interi'ogate  his  hearer;  he  is  going  to  press  him  more 

and  more,  to  circumvent  him,  to  try  to  attack  him  at  all 

points  till   he  has  found   the  one  that  is  vulnerable;   and 

he  comes  gradually  to  a  more  striking  enumeration  and 

almost  a  description  of  them: 

"Great  God!  you  who  saw  in  their  origin  the  iiTegularities  of 
the  sinners  who  hear  me,  and  who  since  have  observed  their 
entire  progress,  you  know  that  the  shame  of  that  christian  girl 
began  only  with  slight  compliances;  and  with  vain  designs  of  an 
honorable  friendship;  that  the  infidelities  of  that  woman  bound 
by  an  honorable  tie  were  at  first  but  little  desires  to  please,  and 
a  secret  joy  in  having  succeeded;  you  know  that  a  vain  itching 
to  know  everything  and  to  decide  upon  everything,  readings  dan- 
gerous to  faith,  and  not  sufiiciently  dreaded,  and  a  secret  desire 
of  intellectual  distinction,  led  that  incredulous  person  little  by 
little  to  free-thinking  and  irreligion;  you  know  that  that  man  is 
sunk  in  debauchery  and  hardness  of  heart  only  because  he  stifled 
at  iirat  a  thousand  feelings  of  remorse  regarding  certain  doubtful 


MASSILLON".  97 

acts,  and  invented  false  maxims  to  quiet  his  soul;  you  know, 
finally,  that  that  unfaithful  soul,  after  an  open  declaration  of 
conversion,"  etc. 

Such  expositions,  skillfully  introduced  at  the  propitious 
moment,  which,  in  some  sense,  hovered  over  the  whole 
auditory,  which  moved  about  over  all  heads  like  a  vast 
extended  mirror,  in  a  distinct  facet  of  which  each  person 
could  recognize  his  own  image,  and  say  to  himself  that 
the  sacred  orator  had  revealed  his  character;  such  exposi- 
tions, which,  read  to-day,  impress  us  a  little  like  common- 
places, were  then,  and  on  the  spot,  appropriate  pictures, 
and  great  moving  springs  of  action.  After  he  had  thus 
made  the  secret  wound  of  every  hearer  quiver,  by  touch- 
ing it  incidentally,  after  he  must  have  seemed  almost  to 
come  to  personalities  with  each  one,  Massillon  rose  to  a 
resume  full  of  richness  and  grandeur;  he  hastened  to  cover 
over  the  whole  with  a  great  flood  of  eloquence,  and  to 
throw  upon  it  a  piece  taken  from  the  curtain  of  the 
Temple:  "No,  my  dear  hearer,"  said  he  directly,  while 
magnificently  giving  to  all  these  lapses  and  all  these 
present  miseries  consecrated  biblical  names, — 

"No,  criines  are  never  the  first  sinful  experiences  of  the  heart: 
David  was  indiscreet  and  idle  before  he  was  an  adulterer;  Solomon 
permitted  himself  to  be  enervated  by  the  delights  of  royalty  before 
he  appeared  in  the  high  places  among  foreign  women;  Judas  loved 
money  before  setting  a  price  on  his  master;  Peter  was  presump- 
tuous before  he  renounced  him;  Magdalen,  no  doubt,  was  anxious 
to  please  before  becoming  the  sinner  (pecheresse)  of  Jerusalem.  .  .  . 
Vice  has  its  progressive  steps  as  well  as  Virtue;  as  the  day  instructs 
the  day,  so,  says  the  Prophet,  the  night  gives  fatal  lessons  to  the 
night.  ..." 

Here   an  echo  is  awakened,  and   returns   to   us   those 

verses  of  Hippolytus  in  Racine: 

"Quelques  crimes  toujours  precedent  les  grands  crimes; 
Ainsi  que  la  vertu,  le  crime  a  ses  degres.  ..." 


98  MONDAY-CHATS. 

It  has  been  often  remarked  that  Massillon  recollects 
Racine,  and  that  he  takes  pleasure  sometimes  in  para- 
phrasing him.  In  the  Petit  Careme,  the  royal  child  to 
whom  it  is  addressed,  that  precious  remnant  of  all  his 
family, —  that  miraculous  child  who  has  escaped  from  so 
many  wrecks  and  ruins, — recalls  at  every  moment  the  Joas 
of  Afhalie.  Massillon  needed  not  to  wait  for  that  simi- 
larity of  situations,  in  order  to  recollect  Racine.  If  Bour- 
daloue  was  the  most  perfect  orator,  according  to  the  severe 
Boileau,  Massillon  is  not  less  the  orator  who  was  to  arise 
on  the  morrow  from  the  creation  of  Esther  and  of  Athalie; 
he  received  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  the  baptism,  as 
it  were,  of  that  nobld,  tender,  majestic,  abundant,  and 
mellowed  language.  "  He  has  the  same  diction  in  prose 
as  Racine  in  poetry,"  said  Madame  de  Maintenon,  after 
having  heard  him  at  Saint-Cyr. 

One  has  even  noted  in  Massillon  some  accents  more 
tender  and  melancholv  than  one  is  wont  to  hear  in  the 
age  of  Lewis  XIV,  and  which  seem  like  a  confused  sigh 
announcing  the  new  times;  in  the  sermon  upon  Afflic- 
tions, for  example.*  We  read  there,  at  the  beginning, 
some  very  touching  words  upon  the  universal  suflfering, 
apparent  or  concealed,  which  is  the  lot  of  all  conditions, 
of  all  stations,  of  all  souls.  Is  it  Massillon,  is  it  a  more 
christian  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  is  it  Chateaubriand 
making  father  Aubry  speak  to  the  dying  Atala,  but  in 
a  purer  language  which  Fontanes  must  have  retouched, — 
which  of  the  thi-ee  is  it,  one  might  ask,  that  has  written 

*M.  de  Saci,  to  whom  we  owe  this  remark,  is  astonished  that  no  one 
has  ever  pointed  out  that  sermon  as  one  of  Massillon's  most  beautiful  and 
best  FrcTon,  a  man  of  sense  (or  Desfontaines)  had  already  distinguished 
and  cited  it,  from  its  very  earliest  publication.  (Jugements  sur  quelques  Out- 
rages Twuveaux,  tome  F,  2>-  2S7.) 


MASSILLON.  99 

this  beautiful  and  sweet  page  of  melodious  morality,  this 
human  plaint  which  is  like  a  song?  — 

"There  is  no  perfect  happiness  on  earth,  because  this  is  not 
the  time  for  pleasures,  but  for  pains:  elevation  has  its  constraints 
and  its  disquietudes;  obscurity,  its  humiliations  and  its  contempts; 
the  world,  its  cares  and  its  caprices;  retreat,  its  soitows  and  its 
ennuis;  marriage,  its  antipathies  and  its  frenzies;  friendship,  its 
losses  or  its  treacheries;  piety  itself,  its  antipathies  and  its  dis- 
gusts; finally,  by  an  inevitable  destiny  of  the  children  of  Adam, 
every  person  finds  his  own  ways  sown  with  briars  and  thorns. 
The  condition  which  is  seemingly  the  happiest,  has  its  secret 
bitternesses  which  corrupt  all  its  felicity:  the  throne,  alike  with 
the  humblest  place,  is  the  seat  of  chagrins;  proud  palaces,  as  well 
as  the  roof  of  the  poor  man  and  the  laborer,  conceal  cruel  cares; 
and  for  fear  that  our  exile  should  be  too  pleasant  for  us,  we 
always  feel  here,  in  a  thousand  ways,  that  something  is  wanting 
to  our  happiness." 

The  great  eflfects  of  Massillon's  eloquence  are  well 
known:  the  most  celebrated  is  that  which  signalized  his 
sermon  on  The  Small  Number  of  the  Elect,  at  the  moment 
when,  after  having  for  a  long  time  prepared  and  wrought 
up  his  auditory,  he  suddenly  interrogated  it  and  sum- 
moned it  to  respond,  by  saying:  "If  Jesus-Christ  were  to 
appear  in  this  temple,  in  the  midst  of  this  assembly,  the 
most  august  in  the  world,  in  order  to  judge  us,  to  make 
the    terrible    separation,"  etc.*      That  assembly,  the  most 

*  The  following  is  the  entire  passage  to  which  Sainte-Benve  refers.  Speak- 
ing of  the  email  number  of  the  elect,  he  says:  '-Let  me  suppose  that  this 
was  the  last  hour  of  us  all;  that  the  heavens  were  opening  over  our  heads; 
that  time  had  ended,  and  eternity  begun;  that  Jesus-Christ  in  all  his  glory, 
that  man  of  sorrows  in  all  his  glory,  had  appeared  on  the  tribunal,  and  that 
we  were  assembled  here  to  receive  our  final  decree  of  life  or  death  eternal! 
Let  me  ask,  impressed  with  terror  like  you,  and  not  separating  my  lot  from 
yours,  but  putting  myself  in  the  same  situation  in  which  we  must  all  one 
day  appear  before  God,  our  judge;  let  me  ask.  if  Jesus-Christ  should  now 
appear  to  make  the  terrible  separation  of  the  just  from  the  unjust,  do  you 
think  the  greatest  number  would  be  saved?  Do  you  think  the  number  of 
the  elect  would  even  be  equal  to  that  of  the  sinners?  Do  you  think,  if  all 
our  works  were  examined  with  justice,  he  would  find  ten  just  persons  in 
this  assembly?    Monsters  of  ingratitude!  would  he  find  one?"— [Tr. 


100  MONDAY-CHATS. 

august  in  the  world,  was  the  one  in  the  chapel  at  Ver- 
sailles; but  it  was  not  there  that  Massillon  first  preached 
that  sermon:  it  was  at  Paris,  in  Saint  Eustachius's 
church,  that  the  unexpected,  irresistible  effect  was  pro- 
duced. It  is  said  that  the  same  agitation  was  produced 
in  the  chapel  at  Versailles,*  and  it  is  told  that  Massillon 
himself,  by  his  gesture,  by  his  downcast  attitude,  by  his 
silence  for  some  moments,  associated  himself  with  the 
terror  of  his  auditory,  and  with  a  sincerity  which  was 
here  confounded  with  the  proprieties  of  the  occasion, 
found  a  way,  even  in  his  triumph,  to  perform  an  act 
of  profound  christian  humiliation. 

Lewis  XIV,  who  uttered  some  just  but  too  rare  sayings, 
said  to  Massillon  one  day,  on  going  out  after  one  of  his 
sermons;  "My  Father,  I  have  heard  several  great  orators, 
and  I  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  them ;  as  for  you, 
every  time  that  I  have  heard  you,  I  have  been  very  much, 
displeased  with  myself."  Examples  have  been  mentioned 
of  sudden  conversions  caused  by  Massillon's  eloquence.  A 
courtier  went  to  the  opera,  and  finding  his  carriage  arrested 
by  the  crowd  of  persons  who  were  going  to  the  church 
where  Massillon  was  to  preach,  he  said  to  himself  that  one 
show  was  as  good  as  another,  and  entered  the  church:  he 
went  out  of  it  pricked  in  the  heart.  But  it  is  particularly 
related  that  Rollin,  then  principal  of  Beauvais  college,  hav- 
ing one  day  taken  his  schoolboys  to  hear  a  sermon  by 
Massillon  upon  the  sanctity  and  fervor  of  the  early  chris- 
tians, the  children  went  away  so  affected  by  it,  that  on  the 
following  days  they  subjected  themselves  to  austerities  and 
mortifications    which     it    became    necessary    to    moderate. 

♦On  this  point,  we  have  tradition  only,  with  its  vagueness  and  uncer- 
tainty. It  would  be  a  precious  thing  if  we  could  liud  some  testimony  that 
was  wholly  contemporary. 


MASSILLON.  101 

Massillon  had  in  his  gifts  4  power  of  uncticn- stronger,  if 
I  may  say  it,  than  his  chafacter.  He  himself,  after  hav- 
incr  thus  conquered  tMe' simi)le-Wtnded"i?ff\t;he  ^-ebellious, 
after  having  publicly  liumtiea'tlie  pride  "of  men  and  dis- 
solved their  incredulity,  had  not  all  the  force  requisite  to 
rally  and  confirm  the  new  believers  in  the  mysteries  of 
faith.  Here  is  the  weak  side,  where  he  inclines  toward 
his  century,  and  no  longer  belongs  altogether  to  the  age 
of  great  men.  People  came  to  him;  they  found  him  an 
honest  man,  an  enlightened,  affectionate  brother,  yet  a 
little  weak.  That  golden  mouth,  which  had  filled  the 
temple,  that  beautiful  sonorous  vase,  which  gave  forth 
sounds  both  so  human  and  so  divine,  was  not  destined  to 
be  a  column  to  bear  heavy  burdens. 

In  the  interval  between  his  Grand  Careme  and  his 
Petit  Careme  and  without  detriment  to  his  other  ser- 
mons, which  he  did  not  stop  preaching,  Massillon  deliv- 
ered some  funeral  discourses.  In  this  department  of  sa- 
cred oratory,  he  is  eminent,  but  not  great;  his  faults  are 
here  conspicuous.  His  historic  portraits  are  deficient  in 
vigor;  he  understands  morality  better  than  history.  I 
have  before  me  his  funeral  oration  on  the  prince  of  Conti, 
published  in  1709,  with  notes  which  a  contemporary  who 
took  part  in  the  ceremony,  and  who  notices  the  difference 
between  the  printed  and  the  spoken  discourses,  wrote  in 
the  margin  in  his  own  hand.*  The  criticisms  made  by 
this  reader  (of  whose  name  I  am  ignorant),  though  a  little 
minute  sometimes,  are  generally  very  just;  he  points  out 
inaccuracies  and  unauthorized  expi-essions  in  the  discourse, 
as  well    as    awkward    phrases    and    repetitions    (the   word 

*  These  manuscript  notes  are  found  in  the  copy  belonging  to  the  Imperial 
Library. 


;jQ2  MONDAY-CHATS. 

goilU  for  example,  repeated  to  satiety);  he  shows  the  weak- 
ness and  laci  of  precisioa;  iV-tie  plan,  especially  toward 
the  end;  he;  ifeoogr^xas' also  and  praises  the  beautiful  por- 
tions, the' liUl/ pie^iii'e' of  the  i>rin'ce  of  Conti  on  the  day 
of  Neerwinden,  and  especially  the  spirited  portraiture  of 
the  graces,  the  affability,  and  the  habitual  charm  which 
caused  him  to  be  adored  in  civil  life.     We  see,  by  these 
notes,  that  the  prince  of  Conti  wrote  down  with  his  own 
hand  the  last  conversations  which  he  had  with  the  great 
Conde  at  Chantilly  upon  the  war  and  upon  other  subjects. 
What  has  become  of  these  precious  Memoranda?      In  fine, 
just  as  in  war  Conti  was  but  the  chief  pupil  of  his  im- 
mortal uncle,  Massillon,  in  the  funeral  oration,  is  but  the 
brilliant  disciple  of  Bossuet  and  of  those  who  have  cele- 
brated the  Condes  and  the  Turennes. 

The  oration  which   he    pronounced   at   the    funeral   of 
Lewis   XIV,    the    admirable   beginning    of   which    I    have 
cited,  has  some  fine  passages,  but  is  equally  faulty  as  a 
whole:  Massillon,  in  praising,  did  not  know  how  to  seize 
upon  the  great  features,  like  Bossuet;  he   mingles  truths 
and   qualifications   which   shade    them,    where   a   brilliant 
coloring,   a  large  and  sustained   treatment,   is  demanded. 
He  has°  contradictions,  in  which  his  sincerity  and  his  phi- 
losophical  beginning,   contending    with    the    obligation    to 
praise,  are  not  easily  reconciled;  as  when,  for  example,  he 
liberally  praises  Lewis  XIV  for  his  revocation  of  the  Edict 
of  Nantes,  and  at  the    same  time  wishes  to  brand  Saint 
Bartholomew  and  maintain  to  a  certain    point  the   prin- 
ciple of  toleration:   in  tliis  passage  Massillon  tries  to  rec- 
oncile two  impossible  ideas,  and  he  is  foiled;  he  produces 
only  a  contradictory  and  uncertain  result.     He  has,  never- 
theless, some  agreeable  and  truthful  passages,  as  that,  for 


MASSILLOX.  103 

example,  which  deplete  the  grave  familiarity  and  digni- 
fied aft'ability  of  Lewis  XIV. 

"From  that  fund  of  wisdom  proceeded  the  majesty  displayed  in 
his  whole  person;  in  his  most  private  life  he  was  never  seen  for  a 
moment  to  forget  the  gravity  and  the  proprieties  of  royal  dignity; 
never  did  a  king  sustain  better  than  he  the  majestic  character  of 
sovereignty.  What  dignity  when  the  ministers  of  kings  came  to 
the  foot  of  his  throne !  what  precision  in  his  words !  what  majesty  in 
his  answers!  We  collect  them  as  the  maxims  of  wisdom,  jealously 
regretting  that  his  silence  should  have  too  often  robbed  us  of  the 
treasures  which  were  ours,  and,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  it,  that 
he  should  have  been  too  sparing  of  his  words  to  his  subjects,  who 
for  him,  were  prodigal  of  their  blood  and  their  tenderness. 

"Meanwhile,  as  you  know,  that  majesty  had  no  fierceness,  but 
a  charming  address,  when  it  was  willing  to  be  approached;  an  art 
of  timing  its  favors,  which  touched  men  more  than  the  favors  them- 
selves; a  pohteness  of  speech  which  knew  always  how  to  say  that 
which  men  loved  most  to  hear.  We  went  away  from  him  enrap- 
tured, and  we  lamented  the  loss  of  those  moments  which  his 
solitude  and  his  occupations  rendered  daily  more  rare." 

Here  one  believes  that  he  is  listening  to  the  Massillon 
to  whom  Lewis  XIV  addressed  some  of  those  words  that 
were  so  just,  so  flattering,  and  so  perfect,  and  who,  a 
passionate  lover  of  the  noble  and  the  good  language,  re- 
gretted that  he  did  not  draw  oftener  from  that  lofty 
source;  that  he  did  not,  by  listening  to  the  king,  hear 
oftener  the  man  in  France  who  spoke  with  the  most  pro- 
priety and  politeness.  Such  a  shade  of  regret  expressed 
in  the  pulpit  by  the  sacred  orator,  appears  to  me  to  in- 
dicate already  a  complete  transition  to  another  age;  the 
Fenelons  and  the  Massillons  were  the  first,  indeed,  who 
inclined  in  that  direction,  and  who  wished  for  a  more 
popular  and  more  familiar  royalty. 
September  26, 1853. 


104  MONDAY-CHATS. 


II. 


To  A>"Y  ONE  who  spoke  to  him  of  his  Sermons  preached 
at  Court,  Massillon  replied:    ''When  one  approaches  that 
avenue  at  Versailles,  he  feels  an  enervating  atmosphere." 
None  of  this  enervation  appears  in  any  of  the  early  dis- 
courses  of   Massillon    (1699-1715).      If  we   overcome,    in 
reading  them,  the  inevitable  monotony  which  belongs  to 
this  species  of  composition,  if  we  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
it,  we   perceive    that  we  are  reading  a  series  of  master- 
pieces.    It  is  always  on  the  moral  side,  it  is  through  the 
heart  and  passions,  that  Massillon  impresses  the  hearer, 
and  strives  to  restore  his  reverence  for  faith  and  doctrine. 
Coming  at  an  age  when  corruption  flourished  most  rank- 
ly,  and  when   it  was  covered  only  by  a   thin  veil  in  the 
monarch's  presence,  he  well  understood  the  nature  of  the 
incredulity  which  he  had  to  combat,  and,  on  that  account, 
it  is   curious    to   see  what   class   of  arguments  he  deems 
fittest  to  oppose  to  it. 

The  duchess  of  Orleans,  mother  of  the  Regent,  wrote 
in  July,  1669:  "Nothing  is  rarer  in  France"  (it  should 
have  been  said,  at  Court)  "than  christian  faith;  there  is 
no  longer  any  vice  here  of  which  one  is  ashamed;  and, 
if  the  king  were  to  punish  all  those  who  become  guilty 
of  the  greatest  vices,  he  would  no  longer  have  about  him 
nobles,  princes,  or  servants;  there  would  not  be  even  a 
house  in  France  which  would  not  be  in  mourning."  In 
speaking  thus,  Madame  did  not  exaggerate;  the  Regency  of 
her  son  soon  after  proved  it.  But  it  was  before  that 
auditory  which  was  hardly  restrained  by  Lewis  XIV,  that 
Massillon  had  to  preach  his  Advent  and  his  Lent  Sermons, 


MASSILLON.  105 

and  that  he  entered,  on  certain  days,  upon  these  vast  sub- 
jects: Of  Doubts  about  Religion;  Of  the  Reality  of  a  Future 
Life.  Before  these  young  debauchees,  in  whom  the  spirit 
of  the  eighteenth  century  is  already  fermenting,  he  as- 
serts the  principle  that  "the  great  difficulty  with  disso- 
luteness is,  that  it  leads  to  a  desire  for  unbelief";  that  it  is 
the  interest  which  the  passions  have  in  never  attaining 
to  a  future  life,  where  light  and  condemnation  await 
them,  that  inclines  and  obliges  the  mind  to  disbelieve  in  it. 
He  repeats  this  truth  in  a  hundred  striking  ways:  "Men 
begin  with  the  passions;  doubts  come  afterward."  He 
does  not  try  to  dissemble  the  fact  that  these  doubts  were 
already,  in  the  fashionable  world,  the  commonest  talk  of 
his  time.  Will  he  proceed  to  discuss  them,  to  examine 
their  nature,  to  enter  into  the  fundamental  pi'oofs  of  re- 
ligion? No,  he  knows  too  well  the  peculiar  character  of 
these  doubts,  and  of  those  who  frame  them,  or  rather  who 
have  learned  them,  and  repeat  them  when  they  are  al- 
ready vulgar  and  hackneyed.  Whom  has  he  before  him? 
Are  they  genuine  unbelievers,  men  who,  in  a  sullen  and 
melancholy  solitude,  during  a  period  of  reflection  that 
was  full  of  darkness  and  of  gloom,  themselves  originated 
the  objections,  and  then  the  answers,  and  who  have  arrived 
laboriously  at  what  they  believe  to  be  certain  results? 
"  No,  my  brethren,"  boldly  cries  Massillon,  "  it  is  not  with 
the  incredulous  that  we  have  here  to  do,  it  is  with  cow- 
ardly men  who  have  not  strength  to  take  a  side;  who 
know  only  how  to  live  voluptuously,  without  morality, 
often  without  decency,  and  who,  without  being  impious, 
yet  live  without  religion,  because  religion  demands  order, 
rationality,  elevation,  firmness,  noble  sentiments,  and  they 
are  incapable  of  them."     It  was  with  this  penetrating  ex- 


106  MONDAY-CHATS. 

ordium  that   Massillon    struck  at  tlie   root    of   the    incre- 
dulity of  his  age,  at  that  which  was  the  peculiarity  of  the 
men    of   pleasure,  which  was  far    more  a  matter  of  gen- 
tility and  of  pretension  than  of  doctrine,  and  which  might 
be  called  libertinism  in  reality.     Right  along  with  this  he 
sketched  the  portrait  of  the  veritable  and  pure  unbeliever, 
in  doctrine  and  in  theory,  the  portrait  of  Spinosa,  whom 
he  strangely  blackens,  and  makes  out  a  monster,  but  char- 
acterizes, nevertheless,  by  some  of  his  fundamental  traits: 
"  That  impious   man,"  he  says,  "  lived   concealed,  retired, 
tranquil;  he  made  his  gloomy  productions  his  only  occu- 
pation, and   needed    nobody  else    to    confirm    him    in    his 
opinions.     But   those  who   sought   for  him  with  so  much 
eagerness,  who  wished  to  see  him,  to  hear  him,  to  consult 
him,  these  frivolous  and  dissolute   persons  were  madmen 
who  wished  to  become  impious."      The  rumor  spread,  in- 
deed, that  Spinosa  had  formerly  been  summoned  to  Paris  for 
consultation.    There  had  been  journeys  to  Holland,  express- 
ly to  see  him.     He  began  to  be  visited  by  pilgrims  and  am- 
ateurs in  unbelief.      Massillon  rallies  them,  these  persons 
who  reject  all   authority  in  matters  of  belief,  for  having 
needed  the  authority  and  the  testimony  of  an  obscure  man, 
before  they  dared  to  doubt.      Upon  all  these  points  Mas- 
sillon is  at  once  a  consummate  moralist  and  a  provident 
indicator;  he    perceives  very  clearly  where,    in    his    time, 
lies  the  peril  in  respect  to  faith,  and  by  what  moral  breach 
it  is  likely  to  escape  from  men's  hearts.     Corruption  and 
licentiousness  are  the  plague  which  is  attacking  the  head 
of  the  social  body,  and  which  is  going  to  infect  souls  at 
the  core.     The  Regency  preceded  the  Encyclopaedia. 

A  century  after  Massillon  things  had  greatly  changed: 
it  was  no  longer  the    mere    corruption    of    morals    which 


MASSILLOX.  107 

confronted  the  christian  orator  as  his  principal  enemy,  it 
was  deliberate,  fixed  unbelief,  which  had  found  its  way 
even  among  honest  people.  Spinosa,  little  read,  little 
comprehended,  had  remained  in  the  shade;  but  other  per- 
sons, less  incredulous  and  more  eloquent,  had  openly 
traced  their  furrow  under  the  sun,  and  propagated  their 
germs  in  all  ways:  many  souls,  willingly  or  unwillingly, 
had  received  them;  do  what  he  would,  every  person  in 
his  day  felt  more  or  less  the  efiects  of  having  come  into 
the  world  after  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  Again,  just 
a  century  after  Massillon,  au  orator  whom  I  shall  not 
pretend  even  to  compare  with  him  in  talent,  but  who 
has  with  much  honor  maintained  the  succession  of  sacred 
eloquence,  the  abbe  Frayssinous,  was  obliged,  in  his  open 
Lectures  under  the  Empire  and  afterward,  to  discuss 
before  honest  people,  mostly  young,  no  longer  desiring  to 
doubt,  but  rather  desiring  to  believe,  the  controverted 
points  of  doctrine  and  historic  tradition,  and  he  did  it 
with  an  amount  of  learning  and  argitment  appropriate 
to  that  new  state  of  things. 

The  Sermons  of  Massillon  are  not  works  suited  to 
analysis:  we  cannot  curtail  them  at  pleasure,  or  cut  at 
will  into  those  fine  integral  moral  discussions,  so  broad 
in  their  scope. —  into  those  vast  interior  descriptions, 
where  no  link  in  the  chain  is  forgotten;  we  can  only 
otfer,  at  best,  some  considerable  passages  and  some  bits. 
What  admirable  views  upon  the  passions,  upon  pleasure 
and  its  disgusts  (sermon  on  The  Prodigal  Son);  upon 
ambition  and  its  lusts  (sermon  On  the  Employment  of 
Time);  upon  envy  and  its  crooked  ways  (sermon  On  the 
Forgiveness  of  Offenses);  upon  the  miseries  even  of  a 
happy  criminal  affection,  of  a   passionate  attachment  felt 


108  MONDAY-CHATS. 

and  reciprocated  (sermon  on  The  Woman  who  Sinned  — 
La  Pecheresse).  "  What  fears  lest  the  secret  should  be 
discovered!  what  bounds  to  keep  in  regard  to  propriety 
and  reputation!  what  eyes  to  avoid!  what  spies  to  de- 
ceive! what  deceptions  to  fear  regarding  the  fidelity  of 
those  whom  one  has  chosen  for  the  ministers  and  con- 
fidants of  her  passion!  what  rebufls  to  endure  from  him, 
perhaps,  to  whom  she  has  sacrificed  her  honor  and  her 
liberty,  and  of  whom  she  would  not  dare  to  comjDlain! 
To  all  this  add  those  cruel  moments  when  the  passion, 
becoming  less  lively,  leaves  us  leisure  to  fall  back  upon 
ourselves,  and  to  feel  all  the  unworthiness  of  our  con- 
dition; those  moments  when  the  heart,  created  for  more 
solid  pleasures,  is  wearied  of  its  own  idols,  and  finds  its 
punishment  in  its  disgusts  and  in  its  own  inconstancy. 
Profane  world!  if  this  is  the  felicity  of  which  you  so 
often  boast  to  us,  confine  it  to  your  adorers!  .  .  ."  What 
eternal  truths  upon  the  subject  of  Death,  truths  still  new 
to-day,  and  which  will  ever  be  so!  for  that  idea  of  death, 
which  men  forget  incessantly,  and  which  they  try  to  turn 
aside,  rules  them,  whatever  they  may  do.  Frail  creatures, 
beings  of  a  day,  in  spite  of  the  lofty  progress  of  which 
they  boast,  in  spite  of  the  increasing  resources  which 
they  have  at  command,  death  is  there,  which  baffles  them 
to-day  as  on  the  morrow  after  Adam,  and  which  seizes 
them  amid  their  ambitious  schemes,  whether  accomplished 
or  only  projected,  amid  their  rivalries,  amid  their  hopes 
of  revenge  and  of  reprisal  upon  fortune:  "We  hasten  to 
profit  by  each  other's  remains;  we  resemble  those  foolish 
soldiers  who,  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and  at  the  very 
time  when  their  companions  are  everywhere  falling  by 
their    side   under    the   steel    and    the  fire  of   the    enemy, 


MASSILLON.  109 

eagerly  encumber  themselves  with  his  clothes.  .  .  ."  But 
this  comes  only  after  a  great  and  inexhaustible  flow 
of  eloquence  upon  the  flight  and  perpetual  renewal  of 
things,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples  of  human 
speech.  As  he  left  the  pulpit  after  these  luminous  out- 
bursts, oh!  how  well  Massillon  knew  that  he  had  been 
eloquent!  and  when  one  told  him  so,  he  replied:  "The 
devil  told  me  so  before  you!"  At  times  he  appears  to 
suffer  from  these  eulogiums.  Of  what  advantage  is  it  to 
him  to  be  praised  for  having  read,  almost  like  a  prophet, 
the  hearts  and  the  secret  propensities  of  those  who  hear 
him,  if  the  propensities  resist  him,  if  the  hearts  remain 
the  same,  and  do  not  in  any  respect  reform?  "  And  of  what 
use  is  it  for  us  to  please'  you,  if  we  do  not  change  you? 
How  are  we  benefited  by  our  eloquence,  if  you  are 
always  sinners?"  Boldly  accepting  the  eulogium,  and 
deriving  from  it  an  occasion  for  self-humiliation,  he  says: 
"  God  no  longer  withdraws  from  his  Prophets  in  the  midst 
of  the  cities,  but  he  takes  away  from  them,  if  I  may 
dare  so  to  speak,  the  force  and  the  virtue  of  their  min- 
istry; he  strikes  these  holy  clouds  with  aridity  and  with 
dryness;  he  raises  up  among  you  those  tvho  render  the 
truth  beautiful  to  you,  hut  who  do  not  render  it  lovely; 
tvho  please,  but  who  do  not  convert  you:  he  lets  the  holy 
terrors  of  his  doctrine  be  weakened  on  our  lips;  he  no 
longer  draws  the  treasures  of  his  compassion  from  those 
extraordinary  men  formerly  raised  up  in  the  days  of  our 
fathers,  who  renovated  cities  and  kingdoms,  who  capti- 
vated the  great  and  the  people,  who  changed  the  palaces 
of  kings  into  houses  of  penitence."  And  alluding  to 
some  humble  missionaries,  who,  during  the  same  period, 
produced  much  fruit  in  the  country-places,  he  said:  "We 
discourse,  and  they  convert," 


110  MONDAY-CHATS. 

I  have  mentioned  some  of  the  sudden  conversions  which, 
according  to  tradition,  were  i^roduced  by  the  eloquence  of 
Massillon:  and  yet  without  denying  the  two  or  three  cases 
which  are  cited,  I  see  that  Massillon  had  little  faith  in 
this  kind  of  conversions  by  the  thunderbolt,  "these  sud- 
den miracles  which,  in  a  twinkling  of  the  eye,  change  the 
face  of  things, —  which  plant,  which  pluck  up,  which 
destroy,  which  build  up  at  the  first  onset.  An  illusion, 
my  dear  hearer,"  he  continued;  "conversion  is  usually  a 
slow,  tardy  miracle,  the  fruit  of  cares,  of  troubles,  of 
frights,  and  of  bitter  inquietudes." 

I  encounter  a  difficulty  here,  and  almost  a  rock,  which 
I  shall  neither  attempt  to  conceal  nor  to  elude.      Massil- 
lon deserves  to  be  treated  without  that  tenderness  which 
resembles  timidity  and  a  shameful  fear.     I  will  say  then 
that  at  the  time  of  his  greatest   successes,  and  when  his 
preaching  was    most    admired    and    most    persuasive,    the 
life  of   Massillon  was    odiously  criminated.      D'Alembert, 
who   is   yet  wholly  friendly  to  him,  says  that  envy  used 
that  means  to  dissuade   Lewis    XIV  from    raising  him  to 
the   bishopric.      Chamfort,  in   an   anecdote    devoid   of  all 
authenticity,  went   so  far  as  even  to  name  the  person  of 
the  other  sex  with  whom,  he  pretends,  he  was  occiipe  in 
a  mundane  way.*     The  contemporaries  of  Massillon  have 
named  more  positively  another   person   of  quality  among 
those  who  were  under  his  guidance.!      The  collection  of 

*  The  person  whom  Chamfort  designates  is  no  other  than  the  amiable 
Madame  de  Simianc,  granddaughter  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  M.  Aubenas  has 
said  a  word  on  this  subject,  page  505  of  the  Histoire  de  Madame  de  Sevigne 
el  de  sa  Famille  (1842). 

+  The   Marchioness   de    L'lICpital,   wife  and   soon  widow   of  the    great 
geometer,  author  of  the  Analyse  des  Infiniment  Petits.     "He  had  married, 
says  Fontenelle,   "  Marie  Charlotte  de  Romilley  de  La  Chesnelaye,  a  young 
lady  of  an   old  noble   family  of  Brittany,  from  whom   he  had  great  wealth. 
Their  union  was  so  complete  that  he  shared  with  her  his  genius  for  mathe- 


MASSILLOK".  Ill 

satiric  songs  called  Recueil  de  Maurepas  (Impei'ial  Library) 
contains,  in  four  or  five  places,  coarse  couplets  insulting 
to  Massillon;  and  it  concerns  us,  not  to  discuss,  but  to 
repulse,  and  that  by  the  mouth  of  Massillon  himself,  these 
slanderous  accusations,  which  would  not  fail  to  come  out 
sooner  or  later,  and  which  would  be  produced  with  an  air 
of  discovery  and  of  triumph. 

After  his  first  successes,  that  happened  to  Massillon 
which  happens  to  every  eloquent  and  celebrated  preacher; 
he  was  sought  for,  peoj)le  ran  after  him,  ,they  forced  him 
often  to  quit  that  I'etreat  of  the  Saint  Honore  house, 
where  he  lived  humble,  studious,  and  occupied  with  medi- 
tations on  Eternity.  Was  there  a  moment  when  Massillon 
was  not  sufficiently  on  his  guard  against  the  malicious 
and  perfidious  world  that  surrounded  him,  and  which 
demanded  only  a  pretext  for  railing  at  him?  Did  he  per- 
mit himself  to  be  too  much  entangled  with  those  requests 
for  guidance  which  came  to  him  from  all  sides,  and  which 
some  half-mundane  women  also  emulously  addressed  to 
him?  He  naturally  loved  good  company;  did  he  suffer 
himself  to  be,  apparenth',  a  little  too  much  captivated  by 
it?  Did  he  go  and  pass  his  autumnal  vacations,  after 
1704,  at  the  estates  and  chateaux  to  which  he  was  invited? 
It  is  possible  that  at  the  time  when  he  became  celebrated 
he  had  committed  some  imprudence  of  that  kind,  and  the 
jesters,  being  unable  to  deprive  his  powerful  speech  of  its 
unction  and  its  charm,  tried  to  deprive  him  of  his  authority. 
He  seems,  in  several  of  his  sermons,  to  have  reflected  on 
this,  and-  to  have  replied  to  it:  let  one  read,  as  he  thinks 

matics."  It  was  that  learned  person  of  whom  Massillon  was  spiritual  adviser, 
and  he  went  and  passed  his  vacations  at  her  home  in  Saint-Mesme  in  1704.  a 
little  while  after  the  marquis's  death:  which  gave  occasion  for  all  the  tittle- 
tattle,  jokes,  and  songs. 


112  MONDAY-CHATS. 

of  this,  the  sermon  On  the  IVorld's  Injustice  toward  Good 
People,  and  that  especially  On  Slander:  "  The  shafts  of 
slander,"  says  be,  "  are  never  more  keen,  more  brilliant, 
more  applauded  by  the  world,  than  when  they  are  directed 
against  the  ministers  of  the  holy  altars:  the  world,  so 
indulgent  to  itself,  seems  never  to  have  kept  any  severity 
except  for  them,  and  it  has  for  them  eyes  more  censori- 
ous, and  a  language  more  envenomed,  than  for  the  rest 
of  men."  He  characterizes  in  vivid  and  precise  terms  all 
the  results  of  the  slander,  which  at  first  was  trivial  and 
insignificant,  "  this  nothing,  which  is  going  to  become  real 
by  passing  through  different  mouths."  We  almost  recog- 
nize here  that  Vaudeville  of  which  Boileau  speaks: 

"Agreable  indiscret,  qui,  conduit  par  le  chant. 
Passe  de  bouche  en  bouche,  et  s'accroit  en  marchant."* 

But  that  which  was  at  first  but  a  simple  pleasantry,  but 
a  malicious  conjecture,  is  going  soon  to  become  a  serious 
affair,  a  formal  and  xniblic  defamation,  the  subject  of  all 
conversations.  "  It  is  a  scandal  which  will  survive  you," 
cries  Massillon;  "the  scandalous  histories  of  Courts  never 
die  with  their  heroes;  lascivious  writers  have  caused  the 
disorders  of  the  Courts  that  have  preceded  us,  to  pass  even 
into  our  satires ;  and  there  will  be  found  among  our  licen- 
tious authors  those  who  will  inform  the  coming  ages  of 
the  public  rumors,  the  scandalous  events,  and  the  vices  of 
ours."  These  words  might  be  written  as  an  epigraph  and 
a  sentiment  at  the  head  of  the  whole  collection  by  Maure- 
pas.  As  for  Massillon,  to  cut  short  a  question  which  can- 
not be  one,  and  a  justification  to  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  descend,  it  is  sufficient  to  repeat  with  him:  "A  corrupt 

*  This  also  recalls  the  portrait  of  calumny  drawn  by  Beaumarchais :  "At 
first  a  (flight  rumor  skimming  lightly  over  the  earth  like  a  swallow,"  etc. 
(Barbier  de  Seville,  Acte  II,  Scene  8.) 


MASSILLOX.  113 

priest  is  never  such  by  halves,"  and  to  pass  on,  without 
further  delay,  to  the  admirable  fruits  which  he  never 
ceases  to  draw  from  his  genius  and  his  heart, —  to  the 
masterpieces  of  his  second  period;  these  are  the  victorious 
and  sovereign  refutations. 

The  Petit  Careme,  which  was  preached  in  1718  by  Mas- 
sillon,  already  nominated  bishoi?,  before  Lewis  XV,  yet  a 
child,  in  the  private  chapel  of  the  Tuileries,  has  been  since 
youth  in  all  memories.  It  is  said  that  Voltaire,  at  one 
time,  had  it  always  on  his  table  by  the  side  of  Athalie. 
That  Petit  Careme,  generall}^  speaking,  was  composed  for 
people  who  profited  very  little  by  it,  but  the  fault  cannot 
be  charged  upon  Massillon.  That  marvellous  little  work, 
which  it  is  said  he  was  but  six  weeks  in  writing,  is  com- 
posed of  six  sermons,  in  which,  while  dwarfing  himself  at 
times,  and  placing  himself  within  reach  of  the  child-king 
whom  he  was  trying  to  instruct,  Massillon  addresses  of- 
tener  the  great  personages  who  hear  him,  and,  while  en- 
chanting them,  lectures  them  upon  their  vices,  their  ex- 
cesses and  hardness  of  heart,  their  duties,  and  the  christian 
obligations  which  are  imposed  upon  greatness.  I  know 
of  nothing  more  beautiful  or  more  true  than  the  sermon 
for  the  third  Sunday  in  Lent,  which  treats  of  the  passions 
and  their  effects,  of  incurable  satiety,  of  that  vast  and  pre- 
mature vacuity,  which  was  then  the  unhappiness  of  some 
l^ersons,  and  which  we  have  since  seen  to  be  the  malady 
of  a  great  number.  The  Regent  said  that  he  was 
born  ennuijee:  how  many  men  have  there  been  since, 
who,  without  being  regents  of  the  kingdom  or  sons  of 
France,  have  likewise  begun  with  ennui  a  life  which  the 
passions  could  only  agitate  and  ravage  without  making  it 
satisfactory.     Massillon  from  this   time  shows  that,  with- 


114:  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

out  having  seen  the  Childe  Harolds  and  the  Renes,  and 
so  many  other  illustrious  persons  successively  disgusted, 
he  had  known  their  malady  as  long  as  anybody,  and  that 
he  had  learned  its  secret  from  Job  and  Solomon,  if  not 
from  himself.  And  what  picture  can  be  more  striking 
and  more  easily  recognized  than  this  illustration  of  a  soul 
finally  devoted  to  capricious  ennui,  the  offspring  of  pleas- 
ure : 

"  Your  passions  having  tried  everything  and  exhausted  every- 
thing, nothing  more  remains  to  you  than  to  devour  yourselves; 
your  whimsicalities  {bizarreries)  become  the  only  resource  of  your 
ennui  and  of  your  satiety.  Unable  longer  to  vary  the  pleasures  al- 
ready quite  exhausted,  you  can  no  longer  Bnd  variety  except  m  the 
eternal  inequalities  of  your  humor,  and  you  incessantly  blame  your- 
selves for  the  void  which  everything  that  surrounds  you  leaves 

witliin  you.  ,  .  ,     j- 

"This  is  not  one  of  those  idle  illustrations  which  discourse 
employs,  and  in  which  one  makes  up  with  ornament  for  the 
lack  of  resemblance.  Approach  the  great;  look  at  one  of  those 
persons  who  have  grown  old  by  the  indulgence  of  the  passions, 
and  whom  long  indulgence  in  pleasure  has  rendered  equally 
incapable  of  vice  and  of  vhtue.  What  an  eternal  gloominess  of 
temper!  what  a  fund  of  ill-humor  and  caprice!  Nothing  pleases, 
because  one  can  no  longer  please  himself:  we  avenge  upon  every- 
thing about  us  the  vexations  which  torment  us;  it  seems  as  if  we 
made  it  a  crime  in  the  rest  of  mankind  that  we  are  unable  still 
to  be  as  criminal  as  they;  we  secretly  reproach  them  for  all  that 
which  we  can  no  longer  permit  in  ourselves,  and  we  substitute  our 
ill-humor  for  our  pleasures." 

Certainly,  it  seems  as  if  he  who  wrote  that  had  suffered 
and  known  it  all.  MassiUon  had  the  gift  which  enabled 
him  to  describe  all  the  states  of  the  soul,  as  if  he  had  expe- 
rienced them  himself. 

And  yet  Massillon  became  so  celebrated  by  his  Petit 
Careme  only  because  in  that  respect  he  chanced  to  be  the 
orcran   of  a  social    sentiment   long    repressed,   which  now 


MASSILLON.  115 

found  expression  for  the  first  time.  A  new  reign,  a  new- 
century,  had  just  begun;  along  with  the  disorders  which 
pervaded  and  scandalized  the  public  morals,  a  great  hope 
was  cherished  in  all  the  souls  that  still  i-emained  virtuous. 
Lewis  XIV  having  abused  his  mode  of  ruling,  a  new  and 
gentler  manner  must  be  henceforth  more  effective  and 
suited  to  the  times:  "Kings  can  be  great  only  by  render- 
ing themselves  useful  to  the  peoples.  ...  It  is  not  the 
sovereign,  it  is  the  law.  Sire,  which  must  rule  the  peoples. 
.  .  .  Men  believe  they  are  free  only  when  they  are  gov- 
erned by  laws.  .  .  .  Yes,  Sire,  to  be  great  in  the  opinion 
of  men,  one  must  be  useful  to  men.  .  .  .  We  must  inter- 
est men  in  our  glory,  if  we  wish  it  to  be  immortal,  and 
we  can  interest  them  in  it  only  by  our  benefits."  Such 
were  the  words  with  which  Massillon,  who  in  this  repeated 
Fenelou,  nourished  his  discourses,  and  which  he  uttered  in 
the  name  of  Christianity.  It  has  been  said  that,  in  speak- 
ing thus,  he  alluded  to,  and  indirectly  satirized,  Lewis 
XIV:  I  do  not  believe  it.  He  would  never  have  allowed 
himself  to  commit  such  an  impropriety  before  the  Ville- 
roys,  the  Fleurys,  the  Du  Maines,  before  those  old  men, 
those  wise  men,  and  those  tried  friends  of  the  old  reign,  all 
those  tutors  of  the  royal  child;  but,  in  speaking  for  peace 
in  opposition  to  conquests,  he  expressed  the  universal  sen- 
timent, that  which  those  prudent  men  had  been  among 
the  first  to  share  with  him.  It  was  not  at  all  against  the 
honors  paid  to  the  august  memory  of  Lewis  XIV  that 
Massillon  protested  in  the  portraits  which  he  traced  of  a 
monarch  who  is  the  father  of  the  people  and  their  bene- 
factor; he  only  proposed  some  kind  of  a  reformation, —  a 
peaceful  and  more  humane  transfiguration  of  Lewis  XIV, 
—  in  that  softened  ideal  of  a  great  king. 


IIQ  MONDAY-CHATS. 

Every  precept,  if  one  is  not  on  his  guard,  runs  great 
risk  of  being  abused.     By  dint  of  continual  repetition  to 
the  young  king:  "Be  tender,  humane,  affable,"  Massillon, 
like  Fenelon  himself,  trenched  closely  on  the  chimerical: 
he  seemed  to  believe  in  that  love  for  the  nourse  which  the 
people  do  not   have,   and   in   which  the    great   kings  and 
those   most   reputed    for    their    good   nature,   even  Henry 
IV,*  have  never  believed.     Massillon,  in  this  part  of  his 
Petit   Careme,   inaugurates   that   policy   by  which,   doubt- 
less, Lewis  XV  did  not  know  how  to  profit  in  time,  but 
which,  as  soon  as  one  wished  really  to  adopt  it,  succeeded 
so  badly  in  the   case   of  Lewis   XVI,  and  in  the  case   of 
Malesherbes,— those  excellent  men  who  confided  too  much, 
even  touching  this   matter,   in  the    general   excellence  of 
human  nature.     Massillon  lays  a  little  too  much  stress  on 
this  sentiment;   he  does  not  add  any  corrective;    he  does 
not   add   the    proper    qualification    of    firmness;    and    one 
must  have  dreamed  of  a  pastoral  monarchy  after  the  style 
of  the  sixteenth  century,   in  order  to   cry  out  with    Le- 
montey:    "The  Petit   Careme   of  Massillon,  a  masterpiece 
fallen  from    Heaven,   like    Telemaque,  sweet  and   sublime 
lessons  which  kings  should  read,  which  the  peoples  should 
adore!"     There  is  in  this  somewhat,  indeed,  of  the  fashion 
and  dream  of  Salentum. 

*  In  rEstoile  there  is  a  saying  of  Henry  IV,  which  is  a  bitter  truth.  It  was 
a  little  after  Chatel's  attempt  at  assassination,  in  the  early  days  of  Henry  s 
rei.-n  and  of  his  entry  into  Paris.  A  procession  was  formed  on  the  fifth  of 
January,  1.595.  in  which  he  took  part.  The  people  seemed  to  --^  to  r^^co- 
pense  him  and  to  avenge  him  for  the  late  attack.  Cnes  of  'Long  l.ve  the 
King!"  resounded  on  all  sides.  "Never."  says  ^'Estoile  " did  one  e  a 
King  so  loudly  applauded  as  was  that  good  prince,  that  '^=^y'  -f--  'l^, 
passed."  One  spoke  of  it  to  Henry  IV,  who  replied  by  shaking  ^'^  h^^d  i^^^ 
le  mo,;  if  my 'greatest  enemy  were  in  my  place  and  they  «-  IjJ^^  P  -s  ng 
bv,  they  would  do  as  much  for  him  as  for  me,  and  would  cry  st.l  ^^f^'J^^ 
thev  do  "  A  very  similar  answer  is  attributed  to  Cromwell,  but  from  the  lips 
of  ilenry  IV  the  saying,  it  seems  to  me,  has  still  more  weight. 


MASSILLOIiT.  117 

I  will  try  to  sum  up  the  impressions  which  mingle  with 
the  admiration,  so  legitimate  and  so  enduring,  with  which 
the  Petit  Careme  inspires  me.  For  the  man  of  taste  who 
reads  it,  there  are  wanting,  I  think,  a  little  more  strength 
in  the  pictures  and  a  variety  of  style  which  would  have 
given  them  more  distinctness.  For  the  christian,  there  is 
wanting,  perhaps,  toward  the  end,  in  the  order  of  faith, 
I  know  not  what  flame  and  what  sword's  point,  not  op- 
posed, however,  to  charity,  but  which  one  cannot  mistake. 
Voltaire  felt  that  sword's  point  in  Pascal,  and  in  Bossuet: 
he  felt  it  less  in  Massillon.  He  had  his  work  read  to  him 
at  table,  and  it  did  not  convert  him :  "  The  sermons  of 
father  Massillon,"  he  wrote  to  Argental,  who  was  a  little 
astonished  at  it,  "  are  one  of  the  most  agreeable  works  we 
have  in  our  language.  I  love  to  have  them  read  to  me  at 
table;  the  ancients  did  so,  and  I  am  very  ancient.  I  am, 
besides,  a  very  zealous  worshipper  of  the  Deity;  I  have 
always  been  opposed  to  atheism;  I  love  the  books  which  ex- 
hort to  virtue,  from  Confucius  to  Massillon;  and  upon  that 
subject  I  am  not  to  be  counselled  but  to  be  imitated." 

It  does  not  belong  to  me  to  play  the  rigorist,  or  to 
find  fault  with  that  magic  of  expression  and  language 
which  prevented  Voltaire,  in  this  case,  from  taking  off'ense 
at  the  ideas;  still  is  not  Massillon  condemned  somewhat 
by  this  very  liking  which  Voltaire  declares  he  had  for 
him,  and  by  the  singular  favor  which  he  enjoyed  of  not 
displeasing  the  adversary?  for,  in  spite  of  all,  it  is  about 
this  which  Voltaire  means  to  say:  "In  vain  dost  thou 
preach  to  me,  thou  art  not  one  of  my  enemies!"  He 
may  be  deceived,  and  he  is  deceived,  but  he  seems  at 
least  to  detect  in  him  a  more  indulgent  disposition  than 
that  of  a  Bossuet  or  a  Bourdaloue. 


2;^g  MONDA.Y-CHATS. 

It   is   not  that  the   evil   spirit  was    not    rebuked   from 
time  to  time  incidentally:  in  that  same  Petit  Careme,  Mas- 
sillon,  as  if  he  had  had  a  presentiment  of  the  author  of 
La  Pucelle,  said:  "  These  vaunted  wits,  who  by  their  happy 
talents  enabled  their  age  almost  to  rival  the  ancients  m 
taste  and  refinement,  left   to   the  world,  as  soon  as  then- 
hearts    were    corrupted,    only    lascivious    and    pernicious 
works,  whose  poison,  prepared  by  skillful  hands,  daily  in- 
fects the  public  morals,  and  from  which  the  ages  follow- 
in<r  us  will  continue  to  imbibe  the  licentiousness  and  cor- 
ruption of  ours."     How  did  Voltaire  look  when  he  heard 
this  passage  read  to  him  at  table? 

In   1717   Massillon  was   appointed    to   the   bishopric  of 
Clermont,  which  was  in  the  gift  of  the  abbe  de  Louvois. 
As  he  was  poor,  one  of  his  friends,  a  generous  rich  man, 
one  of  the  Crozats,  paid  for  his  bulls.      The  consecration 
of  Massillon  took  place  on  the  twenty-first  (and  not  on  the 
sixteenth)  of  December,  1718,  in  the  king's  chapel,  and  the 
young  prince  wished  to  be  present.     There  are  hours  when, 
after'having  for  a  long  time  waited  for  fortune,  one  has 
only  to  let  it  alone.    Massillon  was  received  into  the  French 
Academy  on  the  twenty-third  of  February,  1719,  in  place  of 
that  same   friend,  the   abbe  de  Louvois,  who  had  already 
helped   him  to  the  bishopric  of   Clermont.*      Honors  are 
always  paid  for,  in  this  world,  by  some  compliance.      A 
good  deal   has   been  said  of  that  of  Massillon,   who  con- 
sented to  be  one  of  the  two  bishops  who  took  part  in  the 
consecration  of   cardinal  Dubois,  appointed    archbishop  of 

*The  tender  connection  and  friendship  of  Ma^Billon  and  the  ahbe  de 
Louvois  had  existed  for  eighteen  or  twenty  years.  Two  letters  ft^m  Mas.  - 
Ion  to  the  abbe  have  been  printed,  which  were  written  at  Pans  n  1  01, 
during  the  youn,  ai,be's  journey  to  Italy.  iJournal  General  Ue  VInstrucUon 
I'uUique,  June  25,  1853.) 


MASSILLON.  119 

Cambray;  the  consecration  took  place,  in  a  solemn  man- 
ner, at  Val-de-Grace  (June,  1720).  Duclos  and  Saint- 
Simon  have  given  the  only  reasons,  and  the  best  ones,  in 
excuse  for  his  not  having  said  no.      Saint-Simon  says: 

"Dubois  desired  (for  his  second  assistant)  Massillon,  the  cele- 
brated priest  of  the  Oratory,  whose  virtue,  knowledge,  and  great 
pulpit  talents  had  made  him  bishop  of  Clermont.  Massillon, 
driven  into  a  corner,  bewildered,  without  extraneous  resources,  felt 
the  indignity  of  the  proposal,  stammered,  and  dared  not  refuse. 
What  could  a  man  so  puny,  in  the  estimation  of  the  times,  do 
when  face  to  face  with  a  Regent,  his  minister,  and  cardinal  Rohan  ? 
He  was,  nevertheless,  greatly  blamed  by  the  world,  especially  by 
good  people  of  all  parties;  for  on  that  point,  the  enormity  of  the 
scandal  had  united  them.  The  most  reasonable  persons,  who  were 
numerous,  contented  themselves  with  pitying  him,  and  it  was  at 
last  very  generally  agreed  that  it  was,  in  a  certain  sense,  impos- 
sible for  him  to  excuse  himself  and  refuse  to  attend." 

Note,  in  passing,  this  impartial  testimony  of  the  rarely 
indulgent  Saint-Simon,  to  the  merits  and  the  proved  virtue 
of  Massillon.  It  was  precisely  on  account  of  the  virtue 
and  respectability  of  Massillon  that  the  abbe  Dubois  had 
chosen  him. 

Add  to  this  that  in  the  conduct  of  life  this  same  virtue 
was  never  obstinate  or  intractable:  there  was  something  of 
Atticus  in  Massillon. 

After  these  inevitable  delays,  Massillon,  then  fifty-eight 
years  old,  repaired  to  his  diocese  in  1721,  and  left  it  but 
once,  when  he  went  to  Saint-Denis  to  deliver  the  funeral 
oration  of  the  duchess  of  Orleans,  mother  of  the  Regent 
(1723).  During  the  twenty-one  years  in  which  he  resided 
in  his  diocese,  he  renounced  preaching  and  elociuence, 
whether,  as  one  has  said,  because  his  memory  was  wearied, 
or  because  he  began  to  feel  the  natural  indolence  of  old 
age:    he    limited    himself    to   delivering,    as   occasion   de- 


•^20  MONDAY-CHATS. 

manded.    some    charges    and    synodal    discourses.     Mean- 
while he  practiced  the  episcopal  virtues,  charity  and  tol- 
eration,   then    very    rare    on    account    of    the    lively   dis- 
putes about  the   Bull.     He  mingled  with  that  toleration 
a  kind  of  amenity  that  belongs  to  the  man  of  the  world; 
he   took    pleasure    in   bringing    together    at   his    country- 
house  Jesuits  and  Oratorians,  the  members  of  two  soci- 
eties that  were  little  disposed  to  harmonize,  and  he  made 
them  play  at  checkers:  it  was  the  only  war  which  he  ad- 
vised them  to  wage.     He  had  the  sacraments  administered 
to  the   worthy  niece  of  Pascal,  Mademoiselle  Marguerite 
Perier  who  died  at  Clermont  in  1733  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
seven,   and  whom  a  less  wise  curate  wished  to  question 
touching  certain  articles,  when  she  was  on  her  death-bed. 
It  was  his   principle  to  avoid   scandal,  above  all   things, 
when  the  church  rule  was  not  infringed.     Persons  not  very 
friendly  to  Massillon  found  no  other  way  of  reproaching 
him  than  by  calling  him  that  peaceful  prelate:  it  was  this 
sort  of  taunt  which  the  journal   (Jansenist)   of  the   Nero 
Ecclesiastics   commonly    addressed   to   him.      Further    de- 
tails which  would  exceed  my  plan,  belong  to  that  lull  and 
complete  biography  which  I  would  provoke  some  one  to 

The  last  unfinished  work  of  Massillon's  old  age  was  a 
series  of  Moral  Paraphrases  of  the  Psalms.  Some  beau- 
ties may  be  found  in  them,  but  they  are  more  and  more 
of  the  regular  kind,  and  such  as  one  anticipates  even  m 
their  expansion;  they  are  examples  of  Massillon's  ordinary 
talent,  without  the  movement  and  the  energy  which  he 
infused  into  such  developments  in  his  discourses,  as,  tor 
example,  when  he  so  powerfully  paraphrased  De  Profundus 
m  the  sermon  on  Lazarus.     I  have  sometimes  thought,  in 


MASSILLON.  121 

the  course  of  this  study,  upon  the  diffei-ence  there  is  be- 
tween Massillon  and  Bossuet  when  they  make  use  of  texts 
of  Scripture.  Massillon  gives  his  moral  paraphrase  of  a 
text  which  he  unfolds  verse  by  verse,  and  which  he  grad- 
uates; he  puts  his  sheaf  in  order,  and  places  it,  in  some 
manner,  on  the  wheels  of  the  sacred  chariot;  its  march  is 
regular,  cadenced,  harmonious;  whilst  the  language  of 
Bossuet  is  oftener  confounded  with  the  chariot  itself,  with 
the  fiery  wheel  that  bears  the  Prophet  along. 

Marmontel,  who  was  destined  at  one  period  of  his  youth 
to  the  ecclesiastical  calling,  and  who  had  studied  for  some 
time  at  Clermont,  had  occasion  to  visit  the  eloquent  bish- 
op, and  in  his  Memoirs  he  has  given  a  touching  picture 
of  his  impressions,  which  must  be  generally  faithful  to 
the  facts: 

"  In  one  of  our  walks  at  Beauregard,  the  bishop's  countiy  seat, 
we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  venerable  Massillon.  The  recep- 
tion, so  full  of  kindness,  which  that  illustrious  old  man  gave  us, 
the  lively  and  tender  impression  which  his  looks  and  the  accents  of 
his  voice  made  upon  me,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  recollections  of  my 
youth  that  remain  to  me.  At  that  age  when  the  mental  and  moral 
affections  communicate  with  each  other  so  suddenly,  when  thought 
and  feeling  act  and  react  upon  each  other  with  such  rapidity,  there 
is  no  one  who  has  not  sometimes  chanced,  on  seeing  a  great  man, 
to  stamp  his  forehead  with  the  characteristic  traits  of  his  soul  or 
genius.  It  was  thus  that  in  the  wrinkles  of  that  already  withered 
face,  and  in  those  eyes  which  were  going  soon  to  close,  I  believed 
there  was  still  visible  the  expression  of  that  eloquence,  so  affecting, 
so  tender,  so  lofty  at  times,  so  profoundly  penetrating,  with  which  I 
had  just  been  enchanted  in  reading  his  Sermons.  He  permitted  us 
to  speak  to  him  of  it,  and  to  pay  him  our  homage  for  the  religious 
tears  which  it  had  made  us  shed." 

As  Massillon's  Sermons  were  not  published  in  his  life- 
time, there  seems  to  be  an  anachronism  here:  but  it  may 

be  that  there  were  some  copies  in  circulation  amoncf  the 
6 


122  MONDAY-CHATS. 

scholars  at  Clermont,  or   that   an   incomplete  edition   had 
fallen  into  their  hands. 

Massillon  died  on  the  eighteenth  of  September,  1742, 
in  his  eightieth  year.  He  did  not  live  long  enough  to  see 
disclosed,  along  with  the  public  scandals  of  Lewis  XV,  all 
the  irony  of  the  chaste  promises  and  wishes  with  which 
the  Petit  Careme  had  saluted  that  royal  infancy.  With 
him  expired  the  last,  the  most  abundantly  eloquent,  and 
the  most  Ciceronian  of  the  great  voices  which  had  filled 
and  moved  the  age  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth. 

October  3,  1853. 


PASCAL. 


IN  writing  some  pages  upon  Pascal,  I  labor  under  a 
disadvantage;  it  is  that  of  having  some  time  ago 
written  a  large  volume  of  which  he  was  almost  entirely 
the  subject.  I  shall  try,  in  speaking  now,  before  all  the 
world,  of  a  book  which  ranks  among  the  classics,  to  for- 
get what  I  have  written  of  him  that  is  of  too  special  in- 
terest, and  to  limit  myself  to  what  will  interest  the  gen- 
erality of  readers.  The  excellent  work*  which  I  have 
before  me,  and  in  which  M.  Havet  has  noted  all  the  an- 
terior labors,  will  aid  me  in  this. 

Pascal  was  great  in  heart  as  well  as  in  mind,  which 
great  minds  not  always  are;  and  all  that  he  did  in  the 
sphere  (ordre)  of  the  mind  and  in  the  sphere  of  the  heart 
bears  a  stamp  of  invention  and  of  originality  which  attests 
force,  depth,  and  an  ardent,  and,  so  to  speak,  ravenous  pur- 
suit of  truth.  Born  in  1623  of  a  family  full  of  intelligence 
and  virtue,  liberally  educated  by  a  father  who  was  himself 
a  superior  man,  he  had  received  some  admirable  gifts,  a 
special  genius  for  arithmetical  calculations  and  mathe- 
matical concepts,  and  an  exquisite  moral  sensibility,  which 
made  him  a  passionate  friend  of  goodness  and  foe  of  evil, 
—  greedy  of  happiness,  but  of  a  noble  and  infinite  happi- 
ness. His  discoveries,  even  in  childhood,  are  celebrated; 
wherever  he  cast  his  eye,  he  sought  and  found  something 

*  Edition  nouvelle  avec  Notes  et  Commentaires,  par  M.  E.  Havet.     Dezo- 
bry,  1862. 


124,  MONDAY-CHATS. 

new;   it  was  easier  for  him  to  make  discoveries  for  him- 
self than  to  study  after  the  way  of   others.     His  youth 
escaped  the  levities  and  disorders  which  are  the  ordinary 
peril:    his   nature,  he  tells  us,  was  very  capable  of  tem- 
pests; but  they  spent  themselves  in  the  sphere  of  science, 
and  especially  in  the   order   of  the    religious   sentiments. 
His  excessive  mental  labor  had  early  rendered  him  subject 
to  a  singular  nervous  malady,  which  developed  still  more 
his  keen  natural  sensibility.     The   acquaintance  which  he 
made  with  the  gentlemen  of  Port-Royal  supplied  an  ali- 
ment to  his  moral  activity,  and  their  doctrine,  which  was 
something  new  and  bold,  became  for  him  a  starting-point 
whence  he  set  out  in  his  own  original  way  for  a  complete 
reconstruction  of  the  moral  and  religious  world.     A  sin- 
cere and  passionate  christian,  he  conceived  an  apology,  a 
defense  of  religion  by  a  method  and  by  reasons  which  no 
one  had  yet  discovered,  and  which  was  to  carry  defeat  to 
the  very  heart  of  the  sceptic.     When  thirty  years  old  he 
applied   himself  to  that   work    with    the    fire   and    preci- 
sion which  he  put  into  everything:  new  and  graver  phys- 
♦    ical  disorders  which  supervened,  prevented  him  from  ex- 
ecuting  it  continuously,  but  he  returned  to  it  at  every 
opportunity  in  the  intervals  of  his  pains;  he  threw  upon 
paper   his  ideas,  his  views,  his  flashes.     Dying   at  thirty- 
nine  (1662),  he  was  unable  to  arrange  them  in  order,  and 
his    Thoughts    on    Religion,    prepared    by   his    family   and 
friends,   did   not  appear   till  seven   or   eight  years  after- 
ward. 

What  was  the  character  of  that  first  edition  of  the 
Thoughts?  One  conceives  it  without  difficulty,  even  though 
he  may  not  have  the  proof  from  the  originals.  That 
first  edition  did  not  contain  all  that  he  had  left;  only  the 


PASCAL.  125 

principal  pieces  were  published  in  it,  and  in  tliose  that 
were  published,  scruples  of  various  kinds,  whether  doc- 
trinal or  grammatical,  caused  certain  passages  to  be  cor- 
rected, softened,  or  explained,  in  which  the  vivacity  and 
impatience  of  the  author  had  been  manifested  in  obser- 
vations too  blunt  or  too  concise,  and  in  a  decisive  style 
which,  in  such  a  matter,  might  be  compromising. 

In  the  eighteenth  century,  Voltaire  and  Condorcet  seized 
upon  some  of  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal,  as  in  war  one 
tries  to  profit  by  the  too  advanced  movements  of  a  dar- 
ing and  rash  hostile  general.  Pascal  was  only  daring, 
not  rash;  but,  since  I  have  compared  him  to  a  general, 
I  will  add  that  he  was  a  general  who  was  killed  in  the 
very  moment  of  his  operation;  it  remained  unfinished, 
and,  in  part,  exposed  (a  decouvert). 

In  our  day,  in  restoring  the  true  text  of  Pascal,  in 
giving  his  phrases  in  all  their  simplicity,  with  their  firm 
and  precise  beauty,  and  also  with  their  defiant  bold- 
ness, and  their  everywhere  singular  familiarity,  one  has 
returned  to  a  juster  point  of  view,  not  at  all  hostile.  M. 
Cousin  was  the  first  to  urge  that  work  of  completely  re- 
storing Pascal,  in  1843;  M.  Faugcre  has  the  merit  of 
having  executed  it  in  1844.  Thanks  to  him,  we  have 
now  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal  in  conformity  with  the  manu- 
scripts themselves.  This  is  the  text  which  a  very  dis- 
tinguished young  professor,  M.  Havet,  has  just  published 
in  his  turn,  accompanying  it  with  all  the  necessary  helps, 
explanations,  comparisons,  commentaries;  he  has  given  a 
learned  edition,  and  one  that  is  truly  classical  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word. 

Being  unable  to  enter  fully  into  the  examination  of 
Pascal's    method,    I  would    like    to    insist   here,  after    the 


12Q  MONDAY-CHATS. 

style  of  M.  Havet,  upon  a  single  point,  and  show  how, 
in  spite  of  all  the  changes  that  have  supervened  in  the 
world  and  in  ideas,  in  spite  of  the  repugnance  which  is 
more  and  more  felt  to  certain  views  peculiar  to  the  author 
of  the  Thoughts,  we  are  to-day  in  a  better  position  to 
sympathize  with  Pascal  than  one  was  in  the  time  of 
Voltaire:  how  that  which  in  Pascal  scandalized  Voltaire, 
scandalizes  us  less  than  the  beautiful  and  heart-felt  pas- 
sages which  are  close  to  it,  touch  and  ravish  us.  The  reason 
is,  that  Pascal  is  not  simply  a  reasoner,  a  man  who 
presses  his  adversary  in  all  directions,  who  defies  him 
upon  a  thousand  points  which  are  commonly  the  pride 
and  glory  of  the  understanding;  Pascal  is  at  once  a  soul 
which  suffers,  which  has  felt,  and  which  expresses  its 
struggle  and  its  agony. 

There    were    unbelievers    in    the    time    of    Pascal;    the 
sixteenth  century  had  engendered  a  sufBciently  large  num- 
ber of  them,  especially  among   the    lettered  classes;    they 
were    pagans,  more  or  less  sceptical,  of  whom  Montaigne 
is  for  us  the  most   graceful   type,  and  whose  race  we  see 
continued  in  Charron.  La  Mothe-le-Vayer,  Gabriel-Naud6. 
But  these  learned  and  sceptical  men,  as  well  as  the  free- 
thinkers who  were  simply  intellectual  people  and  men  of 
the  world,    like  Theophile    or    Des  Barreaux,  took    things 
little    to   heart;    whether    they  persevered   in  their    incre- 
dulity or  were  converted  at  the  hour  of  death,  we  do  not 
perceive  in  them  that    profound   inquietude  which  attests 
a    moral    nature  of   a   high    order,  and    a    mental   nature 
stamped  with  the  seal  of  the  archangel;   they  are  not,  in 
a  word,  to  speak  like  Plato,  royal  natures.      Pascal  is  of 
this   leading    and    glorious  race;   he    has    more   than    one 
sign  of  it   in    his   heart   and   on   his   brow:    he  is  one  of 


PASCAL.  127 

the  noblest  of  mortals,  but  he  is  sick,  and  he  would  be 
cured.  He  was  the  first  man  to  introduce  into  the  de- 
fense of  religion  the  ardor,  the  anguish,  and  the  lofty 
melancholy  which  others  carried  later  into  scepticism. 

"I  blame  equally,"  he  says,  "those  who  take  part  in  praising 
man,  those  who  take  part  in  blaming  him,  and  those  who  make 
it  a  business  to  amuse  themselves;  and  1  can  approve  only  those 
who  seek  the  truth  with  groans. ^^ 

The  method  he  employs  in  his  Thoughts  to  combat 
unbelievers,  and  especially  to  rouse  the  indifferent  man, 
and  to  excite  desire  in  his  heart,  is  full  of  originality 
and  novelty.  One  knows  how  he  begins.  He  takes  man 
in  the  midst  of  nature,  in  the  bosom  of  the  infinite; 
considering  him  by  turns  in  relation  to  the  immensity  of 
the  heavens  and  in  relation  to  the  atom,  he  shows  him 
alternately  great  and  small,  suspended  between  two  infi- 
nities, betw^een  two  abysses.  The  French  language  has  no 
more  beautiful  pages  than  the  simple  and  severe  lines  of 
that  incomparable  picture.  Looking  at  man  inwardly  as 
he  has  looked  at  him  outwai'dly,  Pascal  tries  to  show  in 
the  mind  itself  two  other  abysses,  on  one  side  an  eleva- 
tion toward  God,  towai'd  the  morally  beautiful,  a  return 
movement  toward  an  illustrious  origin,  and  on  the  other 
side  an  abasement  in  the  direction  of  evil,  a  kind  of 
criminal  attraction  to  vice.  This,  no  doubt,  is  the  chris- 
tian idea  of  the  original  corruption  and  of  the  Fall;  but 
Pascal,  as  he  employs  it,  pushes  it  to  such  an  extreme, 
and  carries  it  so  far,  that  he  makes  it  in  some  sort  his 
own:  at  the  very  beginning,  he  makes  man  a  monster,  a 
chimera,  something  incomprehensible.  He  makes  the  knot 
and  ties  it  in  an  insoluble  manner,  in  order  that,  later, 
only  a  God,  descending  like  a  sword,  can  cut  it. 


128  MONDAY-CHATS. 

In  order  to  vary  the  reading  of  Pascal,  I  have  given 
myself  the  satisfaction  of  re-reading,  along  with  his 
Thoughts,  some  pages  of  Bossuet  and  of  Fenelon.  I  have 
taken  Fenelon  in  the  Treatise  On  the  Existence  of  God, 
and  Bossuet  in  the  treatise  On  the  Knowledge  of  God  and 
of  Ones  Self;  and  without  seeking  to  investigate  the  differ- 
ence (if  there  is  any)  of  doctrine,  I  have  noticed,  before 
all,  that  of  character  and  of  genius, 

Fenelon,    as    one    knows,  begins  by  seeking  his    proofs 
of  the  existence  of  God  in  the  general  aspect  of  the  uni- 
verse, in    the    spectacle    of   the    marvels    which    manifest 
themselves  in  all    the    orders   of   creation;    the  stars,  the 
diiferent    elements,  the   structure  of  the  human  body,  all 
are  to  him  a  path   by  which   to  rise  from    contemplation 
of  the  work  and  from  admiration  of  the  art  to  a  knowl- 
edge   of   the    workman.      There  is  a  plan,  and  there  are 
laws;   then  there  is  an  architect  and  a  legislator.     There 
are   visible    ends,  then  there  is  a  supreme  design.     After 
having   confidently  accepted    this    mode   of   interpretation 
by    external    things    and    the    demonstration    of   God    by 
nature,  Fenelon,  in  the  second  part  of  his  treatise,  enters 
upon  another  order  of  proofs;  he. admits  of  philosophical 
doubt    touching    things    without,    and    shuts    himself   up 
within  himself  to  arrive  at  the  same  end  by  another  road, 
and  to  demonstrate  God's  existence  simply  by  the  nature 
of   our    ideas.     But  in  admitting  the   universal  doubt  of 
the  philosophers,  he  is  not  frightened  by  this  state  of  the 
case;    he  describes  it  slowly,    almost    complacently;    he    is 
neither  hurried    nor    impatient,    nor  does    he    suffer  like 
Pascal;    he    is  not   what  Pascal  in  his   search  appears  at 
the  very  first,    that    lost    traveler    who   yearns  for  home, 
who,  lost  without  a  guide  in  a  dark   forest,  takes    many 


PASCAL.  129 

times  the  wrong  road,  goes,  returns  upon  his  steps,  is 
discouraged,  sits  down  at  a  crossing  of  the  roads,  utters 
cries  to  which  no  one  responds,  resumes  his  march  with 
frenzy  and  pain,  is  lost  again,  throws  himself  upon  the 
ground  and  wants  to  die,  and  reaches  home  at  last  only 
after  all  sorts  of  anxieties  and  after  sweating  blood. 

Fenelon,  in  his  easy,  gradual,  and  measured  march, 
has  nothing  like  this.  It  is  very  true  that  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  asks  whether  all  nature  is  not  a  phan- 
tom, and  when,  to  be  logical,  he  puts  himself  in  the  position 
of  absolute  doubt,  it  is  very  true  that  he  says  to  himself: 
"This  state  of  suspense  astonishes  and  frightens  me;  it 
throws  me  within  myself,  into  a  solitude  that  is  jirofound 
and  full  of  horror;  it  constrains  me,  it  keeps  me  as  it  were 
in  the  air;  it  cannot  endure,  I  admit;  but  it  is  the  only 
reasonable  state."  At  the  moment  when  he  says  this,  we 
see  clearly,  from  the  ver}^  manner  in  wliich  he  speaks 
and  the  lightness  of  the  expression,  that  he  is  not  seri- 
ously frightened.  A  little  farther  on,  addressing  himself 
to  reason,  and  apostrophizing  it,  he  demands  of  it:  "  How 
long  shall  I  be  in  this  state  of  doubt,  which  is  a  kind  of 
torment,  and  which  is,  nevertheless,  the  only  use  I  can 
make  of  reason?"  This  doubt,  which  is  a  kind  of  tor- 
ment to  Fenelon,  is  never  admitted  as  a  gratuitous  sup- 
position by  Pascal,  and  in  reality  it  appears  to  him  the 
crudest  torture,  that  which  is  utterly  abhorrent  and 
revolting  to  nature  itself.  Fenelon,  in  placing  himself  in 
this  state  of  doubt  after  the  manner  of  Descartes,  assures 
himself  first  of  his  own  existence  and  of  the  certainty  of 
certain  primary  ideas.  He  continues  in  this  way  of  broad, 
agreeable,  and  easy  deduction,  mingled  here  and  there  with 
little  bursts  of  affection,  but  without  any  storms  of  soul. 


130  MONDAY-CHATS. 

One  thinks  he  perceives,  in  reading  him,  a  light,  angelic 
nature,  which  has  but  to  let  itself  go,  to  remount  of  itself 
to  its  celestial  principle.  The  whole  is  crowned  with  a 
prayer  addressed  to  the  infinite  and  good  God,  to  whom 
he  abandons  himself  with  confidence,  if  sometimes  his  words 
have  betrayed  him:  "  Pardon  these  errors,  0  Goodness,  who 
art  not  less  infinite  than  all  the  other  perfections  of  my 
God;  pardon  the  stammerings  of  a  tongue  which  cannot 
abstain  from  praising  you,  and  the  failings  of  a  mind 
which  you  have  made  only  to  admire  your  perfection." 

Nothing  less  resembles  Pascal  than  this  smooth  and 
easy  way.  We  hear  nowhere  the  cry  of  distress,  and 
Fenelon,  in  adoring  the  cross,  does  not  cling  to  it,  like 
Pascal,  as  to  a  mast  in  shipwreck. 

Pascal,  at  the  very  outset,  begins  by  rejecting  the  proofs 
of  God's  existence  which  are  drawn  from  nature:  "I  ad- 
mire," says  he,  ironically,  "  the  boldness  with  which  these 
persons  undertake  to  speak  of  God,  in  addressing  their 
discourses  to  the  ungodly.  Their  first  chapter  is  devoted 
to  proving  the  existence  of  Deity  by  the  works  of  nature." 
Continuing  to  develop  his  thought,  he  maintains  that  these 
discourses,  which  attempt  to  demonstrate  God's  existence  by 
the  works  of  nature,  have  really  no  effect  except  upon  the 
faithful  and  those  who  already  adore  him.  As  for  the 
other  class,  the  indifferent,  those  who  are  destitute  of  living 
faith  and  graces,  "  to  say  to  these  persons  that  they  have 
only  to  see  the  least  of  the  things  that  surround  them, 
and  they  will  see  God  revealed,  and  to  give  them,  as  com- 
plete proof  regarding  that  great  and  important  subject, 
the  course  of  the  moon  or  the  planets,  and  to  pretend 
that  one  has  finished  his  proof  with  such  a  discourse,  is 
to  give  them   occasion   to  believe  that  the    proofs  of  our 


PASCAL.  131 

religion    are    very  weak;    and    I    see,    by    reason    and    by 

experience,    that    nothing    is    fitter   to    inspire    them  with 

contempt  for  it."' 

One  may  clearly  judge  by  this  passage  how  far  Pascal 

neglected  and  even  rejected  with  disdain  half-proofs;   and 

moreover  he  showed  himself  here  more  exacting  than  the 

Scripture   itself,  which  says  in  a  celebrated   psalm:    Caeli 

enarrant  gloriam  Dei: 

"The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament 
sheweth  his  handy- work,"  etc. 

It  is  curious  to  remark  that  the  slightly  contemptuous 
phrase  of  Pascal:  "/  admire  the  boldness  with  which,''  etc., 
was  originally  printed  in  the  first  edition  of  his  Thoughts, 
and  the  National  Library  has  possessed  for  a  short  time 
a  unique  copy,  dated  1669,  in  which  one  reads  verbatim 
this  phrase  (page  150).  But  soon  the  friends,  or  the  ex- 
aminers and  approvers  of  the  book,  were  alarmed  to  see 
this  exclusive  waj''  of  proceeding,  which  was  found  here 
in  contradiction  to  the  Sacred  Books;  they  took  a  proof 
before  the  work  was  published;  they  softened  the  phrase, 
and  presented  Pascal's  idea  with  an  air  of  precaution 
which  the  vigorous  writer  never  assumes,  even  with  re- 
gard to  his  friends  and  his  auxiliaries.  The  single  re- 
mark upon  which  I  wish  to  insist  here,  is  the  open 
opposition  of  Pascal  to  that  which  will  soon  be  the 
method  of  Fenelon.  Fenelon,  serene,  confident,  and  tor- 
mented by  no  doubts,  sees  the  admirable  order  of  a 
starry  night,  and  says  with  the  Magi  or  the  Prophet, 
with  the  Chaldean  shepherd:  "How  powerful  and  wise 
must  he  be  who  makes  worlds  as  innumerable  as  the 
grains  of  sand  that  cover  the  sea-shore,  and  who  leads 
all    these  wandering  worlds  without   difficulty,   during   so 


132  MONDAY-CHATS. 

many  ages,  as  a  shepherd  leads  a  flock!"  Pascal  con- 
siders the  same  sparkling  night,  and  he  perceives  beyond 
it  a  void  which  his  geometrical  genius  cannot  fill;  he 
cries:  "The  eternal  silence  of  these  infinite  spaces  fright- 
ens me."  Like  a  sublime  and  wounded  eagle,  he  flies 
beyond  the  visible  sun,  and,  athwart  its  pale  rays,  he 
goes  to  seek,  without  attaining  it,  a  new  and  eternal 
aurora.  His  plaint  and  his  fright  come  from  finding 
only  silence  and  night. 

With  Bossuet,  the  contrast  of  method  would  not  be 
less  striking.  Though  in  his  Treatise  on  Tlie  Knowledge 
of  God,  the  great  prelate  would  not  address  himself  to 
the  young  Dauphin,  his  pupil,  and  though  he  would 
speak  to  any  reader  whatever,  he  could  not  do  other- 
wise. Bossuet  takes  his  pen,  and  sets  forth,  with  a  lofty 
tranquillity,  the  points  of  doctrine,  the  double  nature  of 
man;  the  noble  origin,  the  excellence  and  the  immortal- 
ity of  the  spiritual  principle  that  is  in  him,  and  his 
direct  connection  Avith  God.  Bossuet  teaches  like  the 
greatest  of  bishops;  he  is  seated  in  his  pulpit,  he  is  re- 
clining there.  It  is  not  a  restless  nor  a  sorrowful  person 
who  seeks,  it  is  a  master  who  indicates  and  establishes, 
the  way.  He  demonstrates  and  develops  the  entire  order 
of  his  discourse  and  of  his  conception  without  struggle 
and  without  effort:  he  experiences  no  pains  in  proving 
his  point.  He  only  in  some  way  explores  and  promul- 
gates the  things  of  the  mind  like  a  sure  man  who  has 
not  fought  for  a  long  time  the  internal  fights;  it  is  the 
man  of  all  authorities  and  of  all  stabilities  who  speaks, 
and  who  takes  pleasure  in  viewing  order  everywhere  or 
in  immediately  reestablishing  it  by  his  word.  Pascal  in- 
sists  upon   the    discord    and    upon  the    disorder  inherent, 


PASCAL.  133 

according  to  him,  in  all  nature.  There,  where  the  other 
extends  and  displays  the  august  method  (auguste  demarche) 
of  his  teaching,  he  shows  his  wounds  and  his  blood,  and 
so  far  as  he  is  more  exti'avagant,  he  resembles  us  more 
nearly,  he  touches  us  more. 

It  is  not  that  Pascal  puts  himself  completely  on  a  level 
with  him  whom  he  reclaims  and  directs.  Without  being 
a  bishop  or  a  priest,  he  is  himself  sure  of  what  he  says, 
he  knows  his  end  in  advance,  and  lets  his  certainty,  his 
disdains,  his  imjDatience,  be  plainly  seen;  he  scolds,  he 
rallies,  he  abuses  the  man  who  resists  and  who  does  not 
hear;  but  suddenly  charity  or  frankness  of  nature  gains 
the  day;  his  despotic  airs  have  ceased;  he  speaks  in  his 
own  name  and  in  the  name  of  all;  and  he  associates 
himself  with  the  soul  in  pain,  which  is  henceforth  only 
the  lively  image  of  himself  and  of  us  also. 

Bossuet  does  not  spurn  the  glimmerings  or  the  helps 
of  the  ancient  philosophy,  he  does  not  insult  it ;  according 
to  him,  all  that  which  leads  to  the  idea  of  the  intellec- 
tual and  spiritual  life,  all  that  aids  in  the  exercise  and 
development  of  the  elevated  part  of  ourselves,  by  which 
we  are  conformed  to  the  First  Being, —  all  this  is  good, 
and  every  time  that  an  iUnstrious  truth  appears  to  us, 
we  have  a  foretaste  of  that  superior  existence  to  which 
the  rational  creature  is  originally  destined.  In  his  mag- 
nificent language,  Bossuet  loves  to  associate,  to  unite  the 
greatest  names,  and  to  weave  in  some  sort  the  golden 
chain  by  which  the  human  understanding  reaches  to  the 
highest  summit.  This  passage  of  sovereign  beauty  must 
be  cited: 

' '  He  who  sees  Pythagoras,  when  ravished  at  having  found  the 
squares  of  the  sides  of  an  uncertain  triangle,  sacrifice  a  hecatomb 


134  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

in  thanksgiving;  he  who  sees  Archimedes,  intent  on  some  new 
discovery,  forgetting  to  eat  and  drink;  he  who  sees  Plato  cele- 
brate the  felicity  of  those  who  contemplate  the  beautiful  and  the 
good,  first  in  the  arts,  secondly  in  nature,  and  finally  in  their 
source  and  their  beginning  which  is  God;  he  who  sees  Aristotle 
praise  those  happy  moments  when  the  soul  is  possessed  only  of 
the  knowledge  of  virtue,  and  judge  such  a  life  only  to  be  worthy 
of  being  eternal,  and  of  being  the  life  of  God;  but  (above  all),  he 
who  sees  the  saints  so  ravished  with  that  divine  exercise  of  know- 
ing, loving,  and  praising  God,  that  they  never  abandon  it,  and 
that  they  extinguish  all  sensual  desires  in  order  to  continue  it 
during  all  the  days  of  their  lives;  he  who  sees,  I  say,  all  these 
things,  recognizes  in  intellectual  operations  the  principle  and 
practice  of  a  life  eternally  happy." 

That  which  leads  Bossuet  to  God  is  rather  the  prin- 
ciple of  human  greatness  than  the  sentiment  of  misery. 
He  has  a  contemplation  which  rises  gradually  from  truth 
to  truth,  and  which  has  not  to  stoop  incessantly  from 
abyss  to  abyss.  He  has  just  painted  to  us  that  spiritual 
enjoyment  of  the  highest  kind,  w^hich  begins  with  Pythag- 
oras and  Archimedes,  passes  on  to  Aristotle,  and  reaches 
and  ascends  even  to  the  Saints;  he  seems  himself,  as  seen 
in  this  last  example,  only  to  have  ascended  a  degree  nearer 
to  the  altar. 

Pascal  does  not  proceed  thus;  he  strives  to  mark  more 
clearly,  and  in  an  impassible  manner,  the  difference  of 
the  spheres.  He  despises  whatever  there  might  have  been 
in  the  ancient  philosophy  that  was  gradual  and  intro- 
ductory to  Christianity.  The  learned  and  moderate 
Daguesseau,  in  a  plan  of  a  work  which  he  proposed  to 
write  after  the  style  of  the  Thoughts,  could  say:  "If  one 
should  undertake  to  work  up  the  Thoughts  of  Pascal,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  rectify  in  many  places  the  im- 
perfect ideas  which  he  gives  in  it  of  the  Pagan  philosophy; 
the  true   religion  has  no  need  to  suppose,    in  its  adver- 


PASCAL.  135 

saries  or  in  its  rivals,  faults  which  are  not  theirs."  Con- 
fronted with  Bossuet,  Pascal  may  exhibit,  at  the  first 
glance,  some  austerities  and  a  narrowness  of  doctrine 
which  offend  us.  Not  content  to  believe  with  Bossuet  and 
Fenelon,  and  with  all  christians,  in  an  unseen  God,  he 
loves  to  insist  upon  the  mysterious  character  of  that 
obscurity;  he  is  pleased  to  declare  expressly  that  God 
wishes  to  blind  some  and  to  enlighten  others.  He  goes  and 
dashes  himself,  at  times,  saheurter  (that  is  his  word),  on 
rocks  which  it  is  wiser,  as  respects  reason,  and  even  as 
respects  faith,  to  go  round  than  to  lay  bare  and  openly 
announce;  he  will  say,  for  example,  of  the  prophecies 
cited  in  the  Gospel:  "You  believe  that  they  are  reported 
to  make  you  believe.  No,  it  is  to  keep  you  from  be- 
lieving." He  will  say  of  miracles:  "Miracles  do  not  serve 
to  convert,  but  to  condemn."  Like  a  too  intrepid  guide 
in  a  mountain  journey,  he  purposely  keeps  close  to  the 
steeps  and  the  precipices;  one  would  think  that  he  wished 
to  defy  giddiness.  Pascal  also,  contrarily  to  Bossuet,  is 
smitten  with  affection  for  little  churches,  for  little  re- 
served flocks  of  the  elect,  which  leads  to  sectarianism: 
"  I  love,"  he  says,  "  the  worshippers  unknown  to  the 
world  and  even  to  the  Prophets."  But  along  with  and 
amid  these  roughnesses  and  these  asperities  of  the  way, 
what  piercing  words!  what  cries  that  touch  us!  what 
sensible  truths  for  all  those  who  have  suffered,  who  have 
desired,  lost,  then  refound  the  way,  and  who  have  never 
been  willing  to  despair!  "It  is  good,"  he  cries,  "to  be 
wearied  and  fatigued  by  the  useless  search  for  the  true 
good,  that  we  may  stretch  out  our  arms  to  the  De- 
liverer!" No  one,  better  than  he,  has  made  men  feel 
what  faith  is;    perfect    faith  is  "God   perceptible    to   the 


136  MONDAY-CHATS. 

heart,  not  to  the  reason.     How  far  it  is,"  says  he,  "  from 
knowing  God  to  loving  him ! " 

This  affectionate  quality  of  Pascal,  making  its  way 
through  all  that  is  bitter  and  severe  in  his  doctrine  and 
conduct,  has  so  much  the  more  charm  and  authority.  The 
touching  manner  in  which  that  great  mind,  suffering  and 
praying,  speaks  to  us  of  that  which  is  most  peculiar  in  re- 
ligion, of  Jesus-Christ  in  person,  is  fitted  to  win  all  hearts, 
to  inspire  them  with  I  know  not  what  that  is  profound,  and 
to  impress  them  forever  with  a  tender  respect.  One  may 
remain  an  unbeliever  after  having  read  Pascal,  but  he  is 
no  longer  permitted  to  rail  or  to  blaspheme;  and,  in  that 
sense,  it  remains  true  that  he  has  vanquished,  on  one  side, 
the  mind  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  Voltaire. 

In  a  passage  previously  unpublished,  and  of  which  the 
publication  is  due  to  M.  Faugere,  Pascal  meditates  upon 
the  agony  of  Jesus-Christ,  upon  the  torments  which  that 
perfectly  heroic  soul,  so  firm  when  it  wishes  to  be  so, 
inflicted  upon  himself  in  the  name  and  for  the  sake  of 
all  men:  and  here,  in  some  verses  of  meditation  and 
prayer  by  turns,  Pascal  penetrates  into  the  mystery  of 
that  suffering  with  a  passionateness,  a  tenderness,  a  piety, 
to  which  no  human  soul  can  remain  insensible.  He  sup- 
poses all  at  once  a  dialogue  in  which  the  dying  Deity 
begins  to  speak,  and  addresses  his  discij^le,  saying  to  him: 

"Console  thyself;  thou  wouldst  not  seek  me,  if  thou  hadst  not 
found  me.  Thou  wouldst  not  seek  me,  if  thou  didst  not  possess 
me;  then  do  not  disquiet  thyself." 

"  I  thought  of  thee  in  my  agony;  I  shed  such  drops  of  blood  for 
thee."' 

"Wouldst  thou  that  it  should  always  cost  me  the  blood  of  my 
humanity,  without  thy  shedding  some  tears?  ..." 

This  passage  should  be  read   in  full  and   in  its  place. 


PASCAL.  137 

J.  J.  Rousseau  could  not  have  heard  it,  I  dare  believe, 
w^ithout  bursting  into  sobs,  and  perhaps  falling  upon  his 
knees.  It  is  by  such  burning,  passionate  passages,  in 
which  human  charity  breathes  through  the  divine  love, 
that  Pascal  has  a  stronger  hold  upon  us  to-day  than  any 
other  apologist  of  his  time.  There  is  in  that  grief,  in 
that  passion,  in  that  ardor,  more  than  enough  to  atone 
for  his  harshnesses  and  extravagances  of  doctrine.  Pascal 
is  at  once  more  violent  than  Bossuet  and  more  sympa- 
thetic with  us;  he  is  more  our  contemporary  in  sentiment. 
The  same  day  in  which  one  has  read  Childe  Harold  or 
Hamlet,  Rene  or  WertJier,  one  will  read  Pascal,  and  he 
will  enable  us  to  cope  with  them,  or  rather  he  will  make 
us  perceive  and  comprehend  a  moral  ideal  and  a  beauty  of 
heart  which  they  all  lack,  and  which,  once  caught  sight 
of,  is  a  despair  also.  It  is  already  an  honor  for  man  to 
have  such  despairs  regarding  objects  so  high. 

Some  curious  and  some  learned  persons  will  continue 
to  study  all  of  Pascal  thoroughly;  but  the  resultant  which 
appears  to-day  good  and  useful  for  minds  simply  serious 
and  for  honest  hearts, —  the  advice  which  I  come  to  give 
them  after  having  read  this  last  edition  of  the  Thoughts, 
—  is,  not  to  pretend  to  penetrate  too  far  into  Pascal  the 
individual  and  the  Jansenist,  to  content  one's  self  with 
divining  him,  and  understanding  him  on  that  side,  in 
some  essential  points,  but  to  confine  one's  self  with  him  to 
the  spectacle  of  the  moral  struggle,  of  the  tempest,  and  of 
the  passion  which  he  feels  for  goodness  and  for  a  worthy 
happiness.  Dealing  with  him  in  this  way,  we  shall  suffi- 
ciently resist  his  somewhat  narrow,  opinionated  and  abso- 
lute logic;  we  shall  lay  ourselves  open  meanwhile  to  that 

flame,   to    that    soaring    disposition,   to    all    that   is   tender 
6* 


"I^gg  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

and  generous  in  him;  we  shall  associate  ourselves  without 
difficulty  with  that  ideal  of  moral  perfection  which  he 
personifies  so  ardently  in  Jesus-Christ,  and  we  shall  feel 
that  we  have  been  elevated  in  the  hours  which  we  shall 
have  passed  face  to  face  with  that  athlete,  that  martyr, 
and  that  hero  of  the  invisible  moral  world:  Pascal  is  for 

us  all  that. 

The  world  moves  on;  it  develops  itself  more  and  more 
in  the  wavs  which  seem  most  opposed  to  those  of  Pascal, 
in  the  sense  of  positive  interests,  of  physical  nature  inves- 
tigated and   subjected,  and  of  human   triumphs   through 
industry.      It  is  good  that  there   should  be  somewhere  a 
counterpoise;  that,  in   some   solitary  closets,  without  pre- 
tending to  protest  against  the  movement  of  the  age,  some 
firm  spirits,  generous  and  not  bitter,  should  say  to  them- 
selves what    is  wanting    to    it,  and    in  what    direction    it 
might  complete  and  crown  itself.     Such  reservoirs  of  lofty 
tho°ughts  are  necessary  that  th|e  habit   may  not  be  abso- 
lutely lost,   and   that   the   practical   may  not   use   up  the 
whole  man.     Human  society,  and,  to  take  a  plainer  exam- 
ple,   French    society,    appears    to    me    sometimes   like   an 
indefatigable  traveller  who  makes  his  journey  and  pursues 
his  way  in  more  than   one  costume,  very  often  changing 
his   name    and   dress.      Since  '89    we   have   been    up   and 
marching    on:    where    are    we   going?    who    will    tell   us? 
but  we  are   marching   on    incessantly.      That    Revolution, 
at  the  moment  when  one  believed  it  arrested  under  one 
form,  rose  and  pushed  on  under  another:  sometimes  under 
the  military  uniform,  sometimes  under  the  black  coat  of 
the  deputy;  yesterday  as  a  proletary,  day  before  yesterday 
as  a  citizen.     To-day  it  is,  before  all.  industrial:  and  it  is 
the    engineer  who  leads  and  who  triumphs.      Let  us   not 


PASCAL.  139 

complain  at  all  of  this,  but  let  us  recollect  the  other  side 
of  ourselves,  that  which  has  so  long  formed  the  dearest 
honor  of  humanity.  Let  us  go  and  see  London,  let  us  go 
visit  and  admire  the  Crystal  Palace  and  its  marvels,  let 
us  enrich  it  and  make  it  proud  with  our  products:  yes, 
but  on  the  way,  on  the  return,  let  some  persons  repeat 
to  themselves  with  Pascal  these  words  which  should  be 
engraved  on  the  froutisjjiece : 

"All  bodies,  the  firmament,  the  stars,  the  earth  and  its  king- 
doms, are  not  worth  so  much  as  the  smallest  of  minds;  for  it 
knows  all  them  and  itself;  and  the  bodies,  nothing.  All  bodies 
together,  and  all  minds  together,  and  all  their  productions,  are 
not  worth  the  least  movement  of  charity;  that  belongs  to  an  order 
infinitely  higher. 

"From  all  bodies  together  one  could  not  succeed  in  producing 
one  little  thought;  that  is  impossible,  and  of  another  order.  From 
all  bodies  and  minds  one  could  not  obtain  one  movement  of  true 
charity:  that  is  impossible,  and  of  another,  supernatural  order." 

It  is  thus  that  Pascal  expresses  himself  in  these  brief 
and  concise  Thoughts^  w:^ten  for  himself,  a  little  abrupt, 
and  which  have  sprung  as  in  a  jet,  from  the  very 
spring. 

The  present  editor,  M.  Havet,  has  treated  me  with  so 
much  indulgence  in  a  page  of  his  Introduction,  that,  in 
concluding,  I  am  somewhat  embarrassed  in  coming  to 
praise  in  my  turn;  he  appears  to  me,  however,  to  have 
proposed  to  himself  and  to  have  attained  the  principal 
end  which  I  have  indicated,  and  his  learned  edition  is  a 
service  rendered  to  all.  The  philosophic  and  independent 
character  which  he  has  been  anxious  to  give  it  cannot 
alter  its  value,  and  it  rather  adds  to  it  in  my  eyes. 
Pascal's  book,  in  the  state  in  which  it  has  come  to  us, 
and  with  the  license  or  the  looseness  of  the  recent  resti- 
tutions,  cannot   be    for   any   one    an   exact   and    complete 


140  MONDAY-CHATS. 

apologetic  work:  it  can  be  only  an  ennobling  kind  of 
reading,  which  brings  back  the  soul  into  the  moral  and 
religious  sphere  whence  too  many  vulgar  interests  cause 
it  to  fall  away.  M.  Havet  has  been  constantly  careful 
to  maintain  this  lofty  impression,  and  to  disembarrass  it 
from  the  sectarian  questions  in  which  Pascal's  personal 
doctrines  might  involve  it.  His  conclusion  sums  up  well 
the  very  spirit  of  all  his  labor:  "In  general,"  says  M. 
Havet,  "  we  men  of  to-day.  in  our  manner  of  understand- 
ing life,  are  wiser  than  Pascal:  but  if  we  would  be  able 
to  boast  of  it,  we  should  be,  at  the  same  time,  like  him, 
pure,  disinterested,  charitable." 
March  29,  1852. 


ROUSSEAU. 


AFTER  having  spoken  of  the  pure,  aiiy,  unemphatic, 
-  entirely  fluid  and  free  language  which  the  closing 
seventeenth  century  had  left  to  some  extent  as  a  legacy 
to  the  eighteenth,  I  would  like  to-day  to  speak  of  that 
language  of  the  eighteenth  century,  as  exemplified  in  the 
writer  who  did  the  most  to  improve  it,  who  made  it 
undergo,  at  least,  the  greatest  revolution  since  Pascal,  a 
revolution  from  which  we  of  the  nineteenth  century  begin 
to  reckon.  Before  Roiisseau  and  since  Pascal  there  had 
been  many  trials  of  ways  of  writing,  which  were  quite 
different  from  those  of  tl^  eighteenth  century;  Fontenelle 
had  his  manner,  if  there  ^ad  ever  been  a  manner;  Mon- 
tesquieu had  his,  stronger,  firmer,  more  striking,  but  a 
manner  still.  Voltaire  alone  had  none,  and  his  vivid, 
clear,  rapid  language  ran,  so  to  speak,  almost  from  the 
spring.  "  You  find,"  saj'S  he,  somewhere,  "  that  I  express 
myself  ver}*  clearly;  I  am  like  the  little  rivulets;  they 
are  transparent  because  they  are  not  very  deep."  He 
said  that  laughing;  one  tells  himself  thus  many  half 
truths.  The  age,  however,  demanded  more;  it  wished  to 
be  moved,  warmed,  rejuvenated  by  the  expression  of  ideas 
and  sentiments  which  it  had  not  well  defined,  but  which 
it  was  still  seeking  for.  The  prose  of  Buffon.  in  the  fii'st 
volumes  of  the  Natural  History,  offered  it  a  kind  of  image 
of  what  it  desired,  an  image  more  majestic  than  lively,  a 


142  >IONDAV-(  HATS. 

little  beyond  Its  reach,  and  too  much  fettered  to  scientific 
themes.       Rousseau    appeared:    the    day  when    he    became 
fully  known  to   himself,  he  revealed  at  the  same  time  to 
his    ao-e   the  writer  who  was    best    fitted    to   express  with 
novelty,  with   vigor,   with   logic    mingled   with   flame,   the 
confused  ideas  which  were  fermenting   and  which  desired 
expression.     Tn  laying  hold  of  the  language  which  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  conquer  and  command,  he  gave  it  a 
bent  which  it  was   henceforth  to  keep;  but  he  gave  back 
to  it  more  than  he  took  away,  and,  in  many  respects,  he 
reinvigorated    and    regenerated    it.      Since    Eousseau,    it 
is  in  the  mould   of    language    established    and   created  by 
him  that  our   greatest  writers   have  cast  their  own  inno- 
vations, and  tried  to  excel.     The  pure  form  of  the  seven- 
teenth   century,    such    as    we    love    to    recall    it,  has   been 
little  more  than  a  graceful  antiquity  and  a  regret  to  peo- 
ple of  taste. 

Although  the  Confessions  did^iot  appear  till  after  the 
death  of  Rousseau,  and  when  h^nfluence  was  fully  domi- 
nant, it  is  in  that  work  that  it  is  most  convenient  for  us 
to  study  him  to-day  with  all  the  merits,  the  fascinations, 
and  the  faults  of  his  talent.  We  shall  try  to  do  so,  con- 
fining ourselves  as  far  as  possible  to  a  consideration  of  the 
writer,  but  without  interdicting  ourselves  from  remarks 
upon  the  ideas  and  character  of  the  man.  The  present 
moment  is  not  very  favorable  to  Rousseau,  who  is  accused 
of  having  been  the  author  and  promoter  of  many  of  the 
ills  from  which  we  sufi"er.  "There  is  no  writer,"  it  has 
l)een  judiciously  said,  "better  fitted  to  make  the  poor 
man  proud."  Tn  spite  of  all,  in  considering  him  here, 
we  shall  try  not  to  harbor  too  much  of  that  almost  per- 
sonal   feeling  which    leads    some    good    spirits   to    have   a 


ROUSSEAU.  143 

grudge  against  him,  in  the  painful  trials  we  are  passing 
through.  Men  who  have  such  a  range  of  influence  and 
such  a  future  must  not  be  judged  by  the  feelings  and 
reactions  of  a  day. 

The  idea  of  writing  the  Confessions  seems  so  natural 
to  Rousseau  and  so  suitable  to  his  disposition,  as  well  as 
to  his  genius,  that  one  would  not  believe  that  it  had 
been  necessary  to  suggest  it  to  him.  It  came  to  him, 
however,  in  the  first  place,  from  his  publisher,  Rey,  of 
Amsterdam,  and  also  from  Duclos.  After  the  Nouvelle 
Heh'ise,  after  the  Entile,  Rousseau,  fifty-two  years  old, 
began  to  write  his  Confessions  in  1764,  after  his  departure 
from  Montmorency,  during  his  stay  at  Metiers  in  Switzer- 
land. In  the  last  number  of  the  Swiss  Review  (October, 
1850),  there  has  just  been  published  a  beginning  of  the 
Confessions,  taken  from  a  manuscript  deposited  in  the 
Libi'ary  of  Neuchatel. —  a  beginning  which  is  Rousseau's 
first  rough  draught,  and  which  he  afterward  suppressed. 
In  this  first  beginning,  much  less  emphatic  and  less  pomp- 
ous than  we  read  at  the  opening  of  the  Confessions,  we 
hear  no  peal  of  the  trumpet  of  the  last  Judgment,  nor  does 
it  finish  with  the  famous  apostrophe  to  the  Eternal  Being. 
Rousseau  sets  forth  there  more  at  length,  but  philosoph- 
ically, his  plan  of  portraying  himself,  of  giving  his  confes- 
sions with  rigorous  truthfulness:  he  shows  clearly  wherein 
the  originality  and  singularity  of  his  design  consist: 

"No  one  can  write  a  man's  life  but  himself.  The  character 
of  his  inner  being,  his  real  life,  is  known  only  to  himself;  but  in 
writing'  it,  he  disguises  it;  under  the  name  of  his  life,  he  makes 
an  apology;  he  shows  himself  as  he  wishes  to  be  seen,  but  not  at 
all  as  he  is.  The  sincerest  persons  are  truthful  at  most  in  what 
they  say,  but  they  lie  by  their  reticences,  and  that  of  which  they 
say  nothing  so  changes  that  which  they  pretend  to  confess,  that 


141  MONDAY-CHATS. 

in  uttering  only  a  part  of  the  truth  they  say  nothing.  I  put 
Montaigne  at  the  head  of  these  falsely-sincere  persons  who  wish 
to  deceive  in  telling  the  truth.  He  shows  himself  with  his  faults, 
but  he  gives  himself  none  but  amiable  ones;  there  is  no  mamvho 
has  not  odious  ones.  Montaigne  paints  his  likeness,  but  it  is  a 
profile.  Who  knows  whether  some  scar  on  the  cheek,  or  an  eye 
put  out,  on  the  side  which  he  conceals  from  us,  would  not  have 
totally  changed  the  physiognomy?" 

He  wishes,  then,  to  do  what  no  one  has  planned  or 
dared  before  him.  As  to  style,  it  seems  to  him  that  he 
must  invent  one  as  novel  as  his  plan,  and  commensurate 
with  the  diversity  and  disparity  of  the  things  which  he 
he  proposes  to  describe: 

"If  I  wish  to  produce  a  work  written  with  care,  like  the  others, 
I  shall  not  paint,  1  shall  rouge  myself.  It  is  with  my  portrait  that 
I  am  here  concerned,  and  not  with  a  book.  I  am  gomg  to  work, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  dTirk  room;  there  is  no  other  art  necessary  than 
to  follow  exactly  the  traits  which  I  see  marked.  I  form  my  reso- 
lution then  about  the  style  as  about  the  things.  I  shall  not  try  at 
all  to  render  it  imiform;  I  shall  write  always  that  which  comes  to 
me,  I  shall  change  it,  without  scruple,  according  to  my  humor;  I 
shall  speak  of  everything  as  I  feel  it,  as  I  see  it,  without  care,  with- 
out constraint,  without  being  embarrassed  by  the  medley.  In 
yielding  myself  at  once  to  the  memory  of  the  impression  received 
and  to  the  present  sentiment,  I  shall  doubly  paint  the  state  of 
my  soul,  namely,  at  the  moment  when  the  event  happened  to  me 
and  at  the  moment  when  1  describe  it;  my  style,  unequal  and 
natural,  sometimes  rapid  and  sometimes  diffuse,  sometimes  wise 
and  sometimes  foolish,  sometimes  grave  and  sometimes  gay,  will 
itself  make  a  part  of  my  history.  Finally,  whatever  may  be  the 
way  in  which  this  book  may  be  written,  it  will  be  always,  by  its 
object,  a  book  precious  for  philosophers;  it  is,  I  repeat,  an  illus- 
trative piece  for  the  study  of  the  human  heart,  and  if  is  the  only  one 
that  exists."" 

Rousseau's  error  was  not  in  believing  that  in  thus  con- 
fessing himself  aloud  before  everybody,  and  with  a  senti- 
ment so  different  from  christian  humility,  he  did  a  singular 


ROUSSEAU.  145 

thing  or  even  one  of  the  most  curious  things  as  regards  the 
study  of  the  human  heart;  his  error  was  in  believing  that 
he  did  a  useful  thing.  He  did  not  see  that  he  did  like 
the  doctor  who  should  set  himself  to  describe,  in  an  intel- 
ligible, seductive  manner,  for  the  use  of  worldly  people 
and  the  ignorant,  some  infirmity,  some  well-characterized 
mental  malady:  that  doctor  would  be  partially  guilty  of, 
and  responsible  for,  all  the  maniacs  and  fools  whom, 
through  imitation  and  contagion,  his  book  should  make. 

The  first  pages  of  the  Confessions  are  too  strongly  ac- 
cented and  very  painful.  I  find  in  them,  at  the  very  be- 
ginning, "  a  void  occasioned  (occasionne)  by  a  fault  of 
memory" ;  Rousseau  speaks  there  of  the  authors  of  his  days 
(auteHfs  de  ses  Jours);  he  brings  at  birth  the  germ  of  an 
inconvenience  (tncommodite)  which  the  years  have  in- 
creased (renforcee),  he  says,  and  "  which  now  sometimes 
gives  him  some  respites  only  to,"  etc.  etc.  (des  reldches  que 
2)0ur,  etc.  etc.)  All  this  is  disagreeable,  and  savors  little 
of  that  flower  of  expression  which  we  enjoyed  the  other 
day  under  the  name  of  urbanity.  And  yet,  close  by  these 
roughnesses  of  expression,  and  these  crudities  of  the  soil, 
we  meet,  strange  to  say,  with  a  novel,  familiar,  and  im- 
pressive simplicity ! 

"  I  felt  before  thinking;  it  is  the  common  lot  of  humanity.  I 
experienced  it  more  than  others.  I  know  not  what  I  did  till  I  was 
five  or  six  years  old.  I  know  not  how  I  learned  to  read;  I  recol- 
lect only  my  first  readings,  and  their  effect  upon  me.  My  mother 
had  left  some  romances ;  my  father  and  1  set  to  reading  them  after 
supper.  The  object,  at  first,  was  only  to  instruct  me  in  reading, 
by  means  of  amusing  books,  but  soon  the  interest  became  so  lively, 
that  we  read  by  turns  without  relaxation,  and  spent  the  night  in 
that  occupation.  We  could  never  leave  off  till  at  the  end  of  the 
volume.  Sometimes  my  father,  hearing  the  swallows  in  the  morn- 
7 


146  MONDAY-CHATS. 

ing,  said,  quite  ashamed:  'Let  us  go  to  bed;  I  am  more  of  a  child 
than  you.'"' 

Note  well  that  swallow ;  it  is  the  first,  and  it  announces 
the  new  spring-time  of  the  language;  one  does  not  see  it 
beo-in  to  appear  till  in  Rousseau.  It  is  from  him  that  the 
sentiment  of  nature  is  reckoned  among  us,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  It  is  from  him  also  that  is  dated,  in  our 
literature,  the  sentiment  of  domestic  life;  of  that  homely, 
poor,  quiet,  hidden  life,  in  which  are  accumulated  so  many 
treasures  of  virtue  and  affection.  Amid  certain  details,  in 
bad  taste,  in  which  he  speaks  of  robbery  and  of  eatables 
(mangeallle),  how  one  pardons  him  on  account  of  that  old 
song  of  childhood,  of  which  he  knows  only  the  air  and 
some  words  stitched  together,  but  which  he  always  wished 
to  recover,  and  which  he  never  recalls,  old  as  he  is,  with- 
out a  soothing  charm! 

"It  is  a  caprice  which  I  wholly  fail  to  comprehend,  but  it  is 
utterly  impossible  for  me  to  sing  it  to  the  end,  without  being 
checked  by  my  tears.  I  have  a  hundred  times  planned  to  write  to 
Paris,  to  have  the  rest  of  the  words  sought  for,  if  any  one  there 
knows  them  still :  but  I  am  almost  sure  that  the  pleasure  which  I 
take  in  recalling  that  air  would  vanish  in  part,  if  I  had  proof  that 
other  persons  than  my  poor  aunt  Susy  have  sung  it." 

This  is  the  novelty  in  the  author  of  the  Confessions, 
this  is  what  ravishes  us  by  opening  to  us  an  unexpected 
source  of  deep  and  domestic  sensibility.  We  read  together 
the  other  day  Madame  de  Caylus  and  her  Recollections;  but 
of  what  memories  of  childhood  does  she  speak  to  us?  whom 
did  she  love?  for  what  did  she  weep  in  quitting  the  home 
in  which  she  was  born,  in  which  she  was  reared?  Has  she 
the  least  thought  in  the  world  of  telling  us  of  it?  These 
aristocratic  and  refined  races,  gifted  with  so  exquisite  a 
tact  and  so  lively  a  sensibility  to  raillery,  either  do  not 


ROUSSEAU.  147 

love  these  simple  things,  or  dare  not  let  it  be  seen  that 
they  do.  Their  wit  we  know  well  enough,  and  we  enjoy 
it;  but  where  is  their  heart?  One  must  be  plebeian,  and 
provincial,  and  a  new  man  like  Rousseau,  to  show  himself 
so  subject  to  aftections  of  the  heart  and  so  sensitive  to 
natural  influences. 

Again,  when  we  remark  with  some  regret  that  Rous- 
seau forced,  racked,  and,  so  to  speak,  ploughed  the  lan- 
guage, we  add  immediately  that  he  at  the  same  time 
sowed  and  fertilized  it. 

A  man  of  a  proud,  aristocratic  family,  but  a  pupil  of 
Rousseau,  and  who  had  hardly  more  than  he  the  senti- 
ment and  fear  of  the  ridiculous,  M.  de  Chateaubriand,  has 
repeated  in  Rene  and  in  his  Memoirs  that  more  or  less 
direct  manner  of  avowals  and  confessions,  and  he  has 
drawn  from  it  some  magical  and  surprising  effects.  Let 
us  note,  however,  the  differences.  Rousseau  has  not  the 
original  elevation;  he  is  not  entirely, —  far  from  it!  — 
what  one  calls  a  ivell-horn  child;  he  has  an  inclination  to 
vice,  and  to  low  vices;  he  has  secret  and  shameful  lusts 
which  do  not  indicate  the  gentleman;  he  has  that  extreme 
shyness  which  so  suddenly  turns  into  the  effrontery  of  the 
rogue  and  the  vagabond,  as  he  calls  himself:  in  a  word,  he 
has  not  that  safeguard  of  honor,  which  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand had  from  childhood,  standincr  like  a  watchful  sen- 
tinel  by  the  side  of  his  faults.  But  Rousseau,  with  all 
these  disadvantages  which  we  do  not  fear,  after  him,  to 
mention  by  their  name,  is  a  better  man  than  Chateau- 
briand, inasmuch  as  he  is  more  human,  more  a  man,  more 
tender.  He  has  not.  for  example,  that  incredible  hardness 
of  heart  (a  hardness  really  quite  feudal),  and  that  thought- 
lessness in  speaking  of  his  father  and  his  mother.     When 


148  MONDAY-CHATS. 

he  si^eaks  of  the  wrongs  done  him  by  his  father,  who,  an 
honest  man,  but  a  man  of  pleasure,  thoughtless,  and  re- 
married, abandoned  him  and  left  him  to  his  fate,  with 
what  delicacy  does  he  mention  that  painful  matter !  With 
what  deep  feeling  is  all  that  depicted!  It  is  not  of  chiv- 
alric  delicacy  that  I  speak ;  it  is  of  the  real,  the  heart-felt, 
that  which  is  moral  and  human. 

It  is  incredible  that  this  inner  moral  sentiment  with 
which  he  was  endowed,  and  which  kept  him  so  much  in 
sympathy  with  other  men,  should  not  have  apprised  Rous- 
seau how  far  he  derogated  from  it  in  many  a  passage  of 
his  life  and  in  many  a  phrase  which  he  affects.  His  style, 
like  his  life,  contracted  some  of  the  vices  of  his  early 
education  and  of  the  bad  company  which  he  kept  at  first. 
After  a  childhood  virtuously  passed  in  the  circle  of  the 
domestic  hearth,  he  became  an  apprentice,  and  as  such 
underwent  hardships  which  spoiled  his  tone  and  deprived 
him  of  delicacy.  The  words  rogue,  vagabond,  ragamuffin, 
knave,  have  nothing  that  gives  him  any  embarrassment, 
and  it  even  seems  as  if  they  returned  with  a  certain 
complacency  to  his  pen.  His  language  preserves  always 
something  of  the  bad  tone  of  his  early  years.  I  dis- 
tinguish in  his  language  two  kinds  of  debasement:  the 
objection  to  one  of  them  is  merely  that  it  is  provin- 
cial, and  bespeaks  a  Frenchman  born  out  of  France. 
Eousseau  will  write  without  scowling:  "  Comme  que  je 
fasse,  comme  que  ce  fiit,'"  etc.,  instead  of  saying  "De 
quelque  maniere  que  je  fasse,  de  quelque  maniere  que  ce 
fut,"  etc.;  he  articulates  strongly  and  roughly:  he  has, 
at  times,  a  little  goitre  in  his  voice.  But  that  is  a  fault 
which  one  pardons  him,  so  far  has  he  succeeded  in  tri- 
umphing over  it  in  some  happy  pages;  so  far,  by  force  of 


ROUSSEAU.  149 

labor  and  emotion,  has  he  softened  his  organ  of  speech, 
and  learned  how  to  give  to  that  cultivated  and  laborious 
style  mellowness  and  the  appearance  of  a  first  gush. 
The  other  kind  of  debasement  and  corruption  which  one 
may  note  in  him  is  graver,  inasmuch  as  it  touches  the 
moral  sense:  he  does  not  seem  to  suspect  that  there  are 
certain  things  the  mention  of  which  is  forbidden,  that 
there  are  certain  ignoble,  disgusting,  cynical  expressions, 
which  a  virtuous  man  never  uses,  and  which  he  ignores, 
Rousseau,  at  some  time,  was  a  lackey;  we  perceive  it,  in 
more  than  one  place,  in  his  style.  He  hates  neither  the 
word  nor  the  thing.  "  If  Fenelon  were  living,  you  would 
be  a  Catholic,"  said  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre  to  him  one 
day,  on  seeing  him  affected  by  some  ceremon}'  of  the  Cath- 
olic worship.  "Oh!  if  Fenelon  were  living,"  cridd  Rous- 
seau, all  in  tears,  "  I  should  seek  to  be  his  lackey,  that  I 
might  deserve  to  be  his  valet  de  chcnnbre.'"  We  see  the 
lack  of  taste  even  in  the  emotion.  Rousseau  is  not  only 
a  workman  in  respect  to  language,  an  appi'entice  before 
becoming  a  master,  who  lets  us  see  in  passages  marks  of 
the  solderings:  he  is  morally  a  man  who,  when  young, 
had  the  most  motley  experiences,  and  whom  uglv  and  vil- 
lainous things  do  not  make  heart-sick  when  he  names 
them.  I  shall  say  no  more  of  this  essential  vice,  this  stain 
which  it  is  so  painful  to  have  to  notice  and  to  censure,  in 
so  great  a  writer  and  so  great  a  painter,  in  such  a  man. 
Slow  to  think,  prompt  to  feel,  with  ardent  and  sup- 
pressed desires,  with  suffering  and  constraint  each  day, 
Rousseau  reaches  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  he  paints  him- 
self to  us  in  these  terms: 

"  I  reached  thus  my  sixteenth  year,  restless,  dissatisfied  with 
everything  and  with   myself,  without   a  liking  for  my  condition, 


150  MON^DAY-CHATS. 

without  the  pleasures  of  my  age,  devoured  by  desires  of  whose 
object  I  was  ignorant,  shedding  tears  without  occasion,  sighing 
without  knowing  why;  finally,  cherishing  tenderly  my  chimeras 
from  inability  to  see  anything  about  me  which  was  of  equal  value. 
On  Sundays,  my  playmates  came  for  me,  after  the  church  service, 
to  go  and  play  with  them.  I  would  willingly  have  escaped  them, 
if  1  could ;  but,  once  engaged  in  their  sports,  I  was  more  ardent, 
and  I  went  farther  than  the  rest,— being  difficult  to  stir  and  to 
restrain.'' 

Always  in  extremes!  We  here  recognize  the  first  form 
of  the  thoughts,  and  almost  the  phrases  of  Rene,  those 
words  which  are  already  a  music  and  which  sing  still  in 

our  ears: 

"  My  disposition  was  impetuous,  my  character  unequal.  By 
turns  noisy  and  joyous,  silent  and  sad,  I  gathered  my  young  com- 
panions about  me;  then,  suddenly  abandoning  them,  I  went  and 
seated  myself  apart,  to  contemplate  the  fugitive  cloud,  or  to  hear 
the  rain  fall  on  the  foliage." 
Again: 

"When  young,  I  cultivated  the  Muses;  there  is  nothing  more 
poetic  than  a  heart  of  sixteen  years,  in  the  freshness  of  its  pas- 
sions. The  morning  of  life  is  like  the  morning  of  the  day,  fuU 
of  purity,  of  hopes,  and  of  harmonies." 

Ren6,  indeed,  is  no  other  than  this  young  man  of  six- 
teen transposed,  exiled  amid  different  natural  scenery, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  different  social  condition;  no  longer 
an  engraver's  apprentice,  son  of  a  citizen  of  Geneva,  of  a 
citizen  of  the  Jou-er  class,  but  a  cavalier,  a  noble  traveller 
at  large,  smitten  with  the  Muses;  all,  at  the  first  view, 
wears  a  more  seductive,  a  more  poetic  color;  the  unex- 
pected character  of  the  landscape  and  of  the  frame-work 
heightens  the  character,  and  denotes  a  new  manner;  but 
the  first  evident  type  is  where  we  have  indicated  it,  and 
it  is  Rousseau  who,  in  looking  into  himself,  has  found  it. 
Ren6  is  a  more  pleasing  model  for  us,  because  in  it  all 


ROUSSEAU.  151 

the  vile  aspects  of  humanity  are  concealed  from  us ;  it  has  a 
tint  of  Greece,  of  chivahy,  of  Christianity,  the  reflections 
of  which  cross  each  other  on  its  surface.  AVords,  in  that 
masterpiece  of  art,  have  acquired  a  new  magic;  they  are 
words  full  of  light  and  harmony.  The  horizon  is  enlarged 
in  all  dii-ections,  and  the  rays  of  Olympus  play  upon  it. 
Kousseau  has  nothing  comparable  with  this  at  the  first 
view,  but  he  is  truer  at  heart,  more  real,  more  living. 
That  workman's  son,  who  goes  to  play  with  his  comrades 
after  the  preaching,  or  to  muse  alone  if  he  can,  that  little 
youth  with  the  well-shaped  form,  with  the  keen  eye,  with 
the  fine  physiognomy,  and  who  arraigns  all  things  more 
than  one  would  like, —  he  has  more  reality  than  the  other, 
and  more  life;  he  is  benevolent,  tender,  and  compassionate. 
In  the  two  natures,  that  of  Rene  and  that  of  Rousseau, 
there  is  a  spot  that  is  diseased;  they  have  too  much 
ardor  mingled  with  a  tendency  to  inaction  and  idleness, —  a 
predominance  of  imagination  and  of  sensibility,  which  turn 
back  and  prey  upon  themselves;  but,  of  the  two,  Rousseau 
is  the  more  truly  sensitive,  as  he  is  the  most  original  and 
the  most  sincere  in  his  chimerical  flights,  in  his  regrets, 
and  in  his  pictures  of  a  possible  but  lost  ideal  felicity. 
When,  at  the  end  of  the  first  book  of  the  Confessions, 
quitting  his  country,  he  pictures  to  himself  in  a  simple 
and  touching  manner  the  happiness  which  he  could  have 
enjoyed  there  in  obscurity;  when  he  tells  us:  "I  should 
have  passed  in  the  bosom  of  my  religion,  of  my  country, 
of  my  family,  and  of  my  friends,  a  sweet  and  peaceful 
life,  such  as  my  disposition  required,  in  regular  labor 
suited  to  my  taste  and  in  a  society  after  my  heart;  I 
should  have  been  a  good  christian,  a  good  citizen,  a  good 
father  of  a  family,  a  good  friend,  a  good  workman,  a  good 


152  MONDAY-CHATS. 

man  in  every  respect;  I  should  have  loved  my  situation, 
/  should  have  honored  it,  perhaps,  and,  after  having  passed 
an  obscure  and  simple,  but  even  and  pleasant  life,  I  should 
have  died  peacefully  in  the  bosom  of  my  family;  soon  for- 
gotten no  doubt,  I  should  have  been  regretted,  at  least, 
as  long  as  I  should  have  been  remembei-ed;"  when  he 
speaks  to  us  thus,  he  does  indeed  convince  us  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  wish  and  of  his  regret,  so  profound  and 
lively  is  the  sentiment  that  breathes  through  all  his 
words,  of  the  quiet,  unvar3"ing,  and  modest  charm  of  a 
private  life! 

Let  none  of  us  who,  in  this  age,  have  been  more  or 
less  afflicted  with  the  malady  of  reverie,  do  like  those 
ennobled  persons  who  disown  their  ancestry,  and  let  us 
learn  that  before  being  the  very  unworthy  children  of 
the  noble  Bene,  we  are  more  certainly  the  grandchildren 
of  citizen  Rousseau. 

The  first  book  of  the  Confessions  is  not  the  most  re- 
markable, but  we  find  Rousseau  in  it  already,  quite 
complete,  with  his  pride,  his  vices  in  their  germ,  his  odd 
and  grotesque  humors,  his  meannesses  and  his  obscenities 
(you  see  that  I  note  everything);  with  his  pride  also, 
and  that  firm  and  independent  spirit  which  exalts  it; 
with  his  happy  and  healthy  childhood,  his  sufi'ering  and 
martyred  youth,  and  the  apostrophes  to  society  and 
avenging  reprisals  (one  foresees  them),  with  which  it  will 
inspire  him  at  a  later  day;  with  his  tender  sentiment  of 
domestic  happiness  and  family  life,  which  he  had  so  little 
opportunity  of  enjoying,  and  also  with  the  first  breaths 
of  spring-time,  a  signal  of  tlie  natural  revival  which  will 
appear  in  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century.  We 
run  a  risk    to-day  of  being  too  little  impressed  by  these 


ROUSSEAU.  153 

first  picturesque  pages  of  Rousseau;  we  are  so  spoiled 
by  colors,  that  we  forget  how  fresh  and  new  those  first 
landscapes  then  were,  and  what  an  event  it  was  in  the 
midst  of  that  very  witty,  very  refined,  but  arid  society, 
which  was  as  devoid  of  imagination  as  of  true  sensibility, 
and  had  in  its  own  veins  none  of  the  sap  which  circu- 
lates, and,  at  each  season,  comes  back  again.  French 
readers,  accustomed  to  the  factitious  life  of  a  salon 
atmosphere, —  the  urbane  readers,  as  he  calls  them, — 
were  astonished  and  quite  enraptured  to  feel  blowing 
from  the  region  of  the  Alps  these  fresh  and  healthy 
mountain  breezes  which  came  to  revive  a  literature  that 
was  alike  elegant  and  dried  ujj. 

It  was  time  for  this  revival,  and  hence  it  is  that 
Rousseau  was  not  a  corrupter  of  language,  but,  on  the 
whole,  a  regenerator. 

Before  him  La  Fontaine  alone,  among  us,  had  had  as 
keen  a  relish  for  nature,  and  had  known  that  charm  of 
reverie  in  the  fields;  but  the  example  had  little  eflPect; 
the  people  let  the  good  man  come  and  go  with  his  fables, 
and  kept  in  their  salons.  Rousseau  was  the  first  person 
who  compelled  all  these  fashionable  people  to  go  out  of 
them,  and  to  quit  the  great  alley  of  the  park  for  the 
true  walk  in  the  fields. 

The  besrinninor  of  the  second  book  of  the  Confessions 
is  delightful  and  full  of  freshness:  Madame  de  Warens 
appears  to  us  for  the  first  time.  In  painting  her,  Rous- 
seau's style  becomes  gentle  and  gracefully  mellow,  and  at 
the  same  time  we  discover  a  quality,  an  essential  vein 
which  is  innate  and  pervades  his  whole  manner, —  I  mean 
sensuality.  "  Rousseau  had  a  voluptuous  mind,"  says  a 
good   critic;   women    play  in    his    writings  a  great    part; 


154  MONDAY-CHATS. 

absent  or  present,  they  and  their  charms  occupy  his  mind, 
inspire  him    and    affect    him,   and    something    relating    to 
them    is    mingled  with  all  that  he  has  written.     "How," 
says  he    of   Madame  de  Warens,  "  in  approaching  for  the 
first  time  a  lovely,  polished,  dazzling  woman,  a  woman  of 
a  superior  condition  to  mine,  whose  like  I  had  never  met, 
.  .  .  how  did  I  find  myself  at  once  as  free,  as  much  at  my 
ease,  as  if   I    had   been    perfectly  sure  of   pleasing  her?" 
This  facility,  this  ease,  which  he  will  not  usually  feel  when 
he  finds  himself  in  the  presence  of  women,  will  always  be 
found  in  his  style  when  he  paints  them.     The  most  ador- 
able pages  of  the  Confessions  are    those   concerning   that 
first  meeting  with  Madame  de  Warens,  those,  also,  where 
he  describes    the    welcome    of   Madame  Basile,  the   pretty 
shopkeeper    of  Turin:    "She   was  brilliant    and    elegantly 
attired,  and,  in  spite   of   her    gracious    air,  that    splendor 
had  overpowered  me.      But  her   welcome,  which  was  full 
of   kindness,    her    compassionate    tone,    her    soft    and    en- 
dearing manners,  soon    put    me    at    my  ease;    I  saw  that 
I  had   succeeded,    and    that    made    me    more    successful." 
Have  you  never  observed  that  brilliancy  and  splendor  of 
complexion,  like  a  ray  of  the  Italian  sun?     He    then    re- 
lates  that    vivid   and   mute    scene,  which  nobody  has  for- 
gotten, that  scene  of  gestures,  seasonably  checked,  all  full 
of  blushes  and  young  desires.      Join  to  this  the  walk  in 
the    environs    of    Annecy   with    Mademoiselles  Galley  and 
de  Graffenried,  every  detail  of  which  is  enchanting.    Such 
pages  were,  in  French  literature,  the  discovery  of  a  new 
world,  a  world  of  sunshine  and  of  freshness,  which  men  had 
near  them  without  having  perceived  it;  they  presented  a 
mixture    of   sensibility  and    of   nature,   one    in    which  no 
sensuality  appeared,    except  so  far  as  it  was    permissible 


ROUSSEAU.  155 

and  necessary  to  deliver  us  at  last  from  the  false  meta- 
physics of  the  heart  and  from  conventional  spiritualism. 
The  sensuality  of  the  brush,  in  that  degree,  cannot  dis- 
please; it  is  temperate  also,  and  is  not  masked,  which 
renders  it  more  innocent  than  that  of  which  many  paint- 
ers have  since  made  use. 

As  a  painter.  Rousseau  everywhere  manifests  the  senti- 
ment of  realiiij.  He  shows  it  every  time  that  he  speaks 
to  us  of  beauty,  which,  even  when  it  is  imaginary,  like 
his  Julia,  assumes  a  body  and  perfectly  visible  forms,  and 
is  by  no  means  an  airy  and  intangible  Iris.  That  he  has 
this  sense  of  reality  appears  from  his  wishing  that  every 
scene  which  he  recollects  or  invents,  that  every  character 
he  introduces,  should  be  enclosed  and  move  in  a  well 
determined  place,  of  which  the  smallest  details  may  be 
traced  and  retained.  One  of  the  things  which  he  found 
fault  with  in  the  great  novelist  Richardson,  was,  that  he 
did  not  connect  the  recollection  of  his  characters  with  a 
locality  the  pictures  of  which  one  would  have  loved  to 
identify.  See  also  how  he  has  contrived  to  naturalize 
his  Julia  and  his  Saint-Preux  in  the  Pays-de-Vaud,  on 
the  border  of  that  lake  about  which  his  heart  never 
ceased  to  wander.  His  sound,  firm  mind  continually  lends 
its  graver  to  the  imagination,  that  nothing  essential  to 
the  sketch  may  be  omitted.  Finally  this  sense  of  reality 
is  noticeable,  again,  in  the  care  with  which,  amid  all  his 
circumstances  and  his  adventures,  happy  or  unhappy,  and 
even  the  most  romantic,  he  never  forgets  to  speak  of 
repasts  and  the  details  of  a  good,  frugal  cheer,  fitted  to 
give  joy  alike  to  heart  and  mind. 

This  trait  is  also  a  material  one;  it  is  related  to  that 
citizen-like  and  popiilar  character  which  I  have  noted  in 


156  MONDAY-CHATS. 

Rousseau.  He  had  been  hungry  in  his  lifetime;  he  notes 
in  his  Confessions,  with  a  feeling  of  thankfulness  to  Provi- 
dence, the  last  time  that  it  was  his  lot  to  experience 
literal  want  and  hunger.  Nor  will  he  ever  forget  to  in- 
troduce these  incidents  of  real  life  and  of  the  common 
humanity,  these  heart-matters,  even  into  the  ideal  picture 
of  his  happiness,  which  he  will  give  at  a  later  day.  It 
is  by  all  these  true  qualities  combined  in  his  elociuence, 
that  he  seizes  and  holds  us. 

Nature,  sincerely  enjoyed  and  loved  for  herself,  is  the 
source  of  Rousseau's  inspiration,  whenever  that  inspiration 
is  healthy,  and  not  of  a  sickly  kind.  When  he  sees 
Madame  de  Warens  again,  on  his  return  from  Turin,  he 
stays  some  time  at  her  house,  and  from  the  room  that  is 
given  him  he  sees  gardens  and  discovers  the  counti'y:  "It 
was  the  first  time,"  he  sa3^s,  "  since  I  was  at  Bossey  (a 
place  where  he  was  sent  to  be  boarded  in  his  childhood), 
that  I  had  something  green  before  my  tvindows.'''  Till  then, 
to  have  or  not  to  have  sometJiing  green  under  one's  eyes, 
had  been  a  matter  of  great  inditference  to  French  litera- 
ture; it  belonged  to  Rousseau  to  make  it  perceive  it.  It 
is  from  this  point  of  view  that  one  might  characterize 
him  by  a  word:  he  was  the  first  who  put  something  green 
into  our  literature.  Living  thus,  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
near  a  woman  whom  he  loved,  but  to  whom  he  dared  not 
declare  his  passion,  Rousseau  abandoned  himself  to  a  sad- 
ness which  yet  had  nothing  gloomy  in  it,  and  which  was 
tempered  by  a  flattering  hope.  Having  gone  to  walk  out 
of  town,  on  a  great  fete  day,  whilst  the  people  were  at 
vespers, — 

"The  sound  of  the  bells,  which  has  always  strangely  affected 
me,  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  beauty  of  the  day,  the  softness  of 


ROUSSEAU.  157 

the  landscape,  the  scattered  and  rural  houses,  in  which  I  fixed  in 
imagination  our  common  abode,  all  this  affected  me  with  such  a 
vivid,  tender,  sad,  and  touching  impression,  that  I  saw  myself,  as 
it  were,  in  ecstasy  transported  to  that  happy  time  and  to  that 
happy  sojourn,  in  wliich  my  heart,  possessing  all  the  felicity  that 
c(iuld  please  it,  enjoyed  it  with  inexpressible  rapture,  without 
even  dreaming  of  the  pleasure  of  the  senses." 

This  is  what  the  child  of  Geneva  felt  at  Annecy  in  the 
year  1731,  whilst  at  Paris  people  were  reading  the  Tem- 
ple of  Gnidus.  On  that  day  he  discovered  the  reverie, 
that  new  charm  which  had  been  left  as  a  singularity  to 
La  Fontaine,  and  which  he  was  going,  himself,  finally  to 
introduce  into  a  literature  that  was  till  then  polite  or 
positive.  Reverie, —  such  is  his  novelty,  his  discovery,  his 
own  America.  The  dream  of  that  day  was  realized  by 
him  .some  years  afterward,  in  his  sojourn  at  the  Char- 
mettes,  in  that  walk  by  day  from  Saint-Louis,  which  he 
has  described  as  nothing  like  it  had  ever  before  been 
depicted : 

"Everything  seemed  to  conspire  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
that  day.  It  had  rained  just  before;  there  was  no  dust,  and  the 
streams  tvere  running  well;  a  gentle  fresh  breeze  stirred  the  leaves, 
the  air  was  pure,  the  horizon  cloudless,  serenity  reigned  in  the  sky 
as  in  our  hearts.  We  took  our  dinner  at  a  peasant's  house,  and 
shared  it  ^\-ith  his  family,  who  blessed  us  heartily.  These  poor 
Savoyards  are  such  good  people!" 

With  this  kindly  feeling,  and  in  this  observant  and 
simply  truthful  way,  he  continues  to  unfold  a  picture  in 
which  all  is  perfect,  all  is  enchanting,  and  in  which  only 
the  name  of  Mamma  applied  to  Madame  de  Warens  mor- 
ally wounds  and  pains  us. 

That  period  at  the  Charmettes,  in  which  this  still  young 
heart  was  permitted  to  open  for  the  first  time,  is  the 
divinest  of  the  Confessions,  and  it  will  never  return,  even 


158  MOX  DAY-CHATS. 

when  Rousseau  shall  have  retired  to  the  Hermitage.    The 
description    of  those   years  at  the  Hermitage,  and  of  the 
passion  which  came  to  seek  him  there,  is  very  fascinating 
also,  and  is  more    remarkable    perhaps  than  all  that  pre- 
cedes it;  he  will  justly  exclaim,  however:  It  is  no  longer 
the  CJiarmettes  there!     The  misanthropy  and  the  suspicion 
of   which    he    is    already  the    victim,  will    pursue   him  in 
that  period  of  solitude.      He  will  he  thinking  continually 
there  of  the  Parisian  world,  of  the  society  at  D'Holbach's; 
he  will  enjoy  his  retreat  in  spite  of  them,  but  that  thought 
will   poison  his   purest    enjoyments.      His   disposition    will 
sour,   and   will   contract    during    these    years  a  henceforth 
incurable    disorder.     He    will    have,    no    doubt,    some  de- 
licious   moments    then,    and    afterward,  even  to  the    end; 
he  will   find  again,  in  Saint-Peter"s  island,  in  the  middle 
of  lake  Bienne,  an  interval  of  calmness  and  of  forgetful- 
ness    which    will    furnish    him    with    inspiration  for  some 
of   his    finest    pages, —  that    fifth    Walk    of    the   Reveries, 
which,  with  the  third  Letter  to  M.  de  Malesherbes,  cannot 
be  separated  from  the  divinest  passages  of  the  Confessions. 
Nevertheless,  nothing   will  equal    in   lightness,    freshness, 
and  joyousness  the  description    of   life  at  the  Charmettes. 
Rousseau's   true   happiness,    of   which    no    one,    not    even 
himself,  could  rob  him,  was  the  ability  thus  to  evoke  and 
to  retrace,  with    the    precision   and  vividness  which  char- 
acterized his  recollection,  such  pictures  of  youth,  even  in 
the  years  that  were  fullest  of  troubles  and  distractions. 

The  pedestrian  journey,  with  its  impressions  at  each 
moment,  was  also  one  of  the  inventions  of  Rousseau,  one 
of  the  novelties  which  he  imported  into  literature:  it  has 
since  been  greatly  abused.  It  was  not  just  after  he  had 
enjoyed    his    trip,    but    much    later,  that    he    thought    of 


ROUSSEAU.  159 

relating  his  experiences.  It  was  only  then,  he  assures  us, 
when  he  traveled  on  foot,  at  a  beautiful  season,  in  a 
beautiful  countr}^  without  being  hurried,  having  for  the 
goal  of  his  journey  an  agreeable  object  which  he  was 
not  in  too  great  haste  to  attain, —  it  was  then  that  he 
was  entirely  himself,  and  that  ideas  of  his  which  were 
cold  and  dead  in  the  study,  came  to  life  and  took  flight: 

"Walking  has  something  in  it  that  animates  and  brightens 
my  ideas;  I  am  scarcely  able  to  think  when  I  keep  one  position; 
my  body  must  be  in  full  swing  before  my  mind  can  be  so.  The 
sight  of  the  country,  the  succession  of  agreeable  objects,  the  open 
air,  the  good  health  I  gain  by  walking,  the  freedom  of  the  inn, 
the  removal  from  everything  that  makes  me  feel  my  dependence, 
from  everything  that  reminds  me  of  my  situation,  all  this  sets  my 
soul  free,  gives  me  a  greater  audacity  of  thought,  casts  me,  in 
some  way,  into  the  immensity  of  beings  where  I  may  combine, 
choose,  and  appropriate  them  at  will,  without  hindrance  and  with- 
out fear.     I  dispose,  as  a  master,  of  all  nature.  ..." 

Do  not  ask  him  to  write,  at  these  moments,  the  sub- 
lime, foolish,  pleasant  thoughts  which  pass  through  his 
mind:  he  likes  much  better  to  taste  and  to  relish  than 
to  speak  of  them:  "Besides,  did  I  carry  with  me  paj^er 
and  pens?  If  I  had  thought  of  all  that,  nothing  would 
have  come  to  me.  I  did  not  foresee  that  I  should  have 
ideas;  they  come  when  it  pleases  them,  not  when  it  pleases 
me."  Thus,  in  all  that  he  has  since  related,  we  should 
have,  if  we  may  believe  him,  only  distant  recollections 
and  feeble  remains  of  himself,  as  he  was  at  those 
moments.  And  yet  what  could  be  at  once  more  true, 
more  precise,  and  more  delicious?  Let  us  recall  that 
night  which  he  passes  in  the  starlight,  on  the  bank  of 
the  Rhone  or  the  Saone,  in  a  hollow  way  near  Lyons: 

"I  slept  voluptuously  on  the  sill  of  a  kind  of  niche  or  false  door 
opened  in  a  terrace  wall.    The  canopy  of  my  bed  was  formed  of  the 


160  MONDAY-CHATS. 

tops  of  the  trees;  a  nightingale  was  just  above  me,  I  fell  asleep 
under  his  song,  my  sleep  was  sweet,  my  waking  was  more  so.  It 
was  broad  day;  my  eyes,  as  they  opened,  saw  the  water,  the  verd- 
ure, a  wonderful  landscape.  I  rose  and  roused  myself;  I  felt  hun- 
gry; I  proceeded  gaily  toward  the  city,  resolved  to  lay  out  for  a 
good  breakfast  two  six-blank  pieces*  which  were  yet  left  to  me." 

All  the  native  Rousseau  is  there,  v^^ith  his  reverie,  his 
ideality,  his  reality;  and  that  six-blank  piece  itself,  which 
comes  after  the  nicrhtingale,  is  not  too  much  to  bring  us 
back  to  the  earth,  and  make  us  feel  all  the  humble  enjoy- 
ment which  poverty  conceals  within  itself  when  it  is 
joined  with  poetry  and  with  youth.  I  desired  to  extend  the 
quotation  as  far  as  this  six-blank  piece,  to  show  that  when 
we  are  with  Rousseau  we  are  not  merely  keeping  company 
with  Bene  and  with  Jocelyn. 

The  picturesque  in  Rousseau  is  temperate,  firm,  and 
clear,  even  in  the  softest  passages;  the  coloring  is  always 
laid  upon  a  well-drawn  outline;  that  Genevese  citizen 
shows  in  this  that  he  is  of  pure  French  extraction.  If  he 
lacks  at  times  a  warmer  light  and  the  splendors  of  Italy 
and  Greece;  if,  as  about  that  beautiful  Geneva  lake,  the 
north  wind  comes  sometimes  to  chill  the  atmosphere,  and 
if  at  times  a  cloud  suddenly  casts  a  grayish  tint  upon  the 
sides  of  the  mountains,  there  are  days  and  hours  of  clear 
and  perfect  serenity.  Improvements  have  since  been  made 
upon  this  style,  and  persons  have  believed  that  they  have 
paled  and  surpassed  it;  they  have  certainly  succeeded  in 
respect  to  certain  effects  of  colors  and  sounds.  Never- 
theless, the  style  remains  still  the  surest  and  the  firmest 
which  one  can  offer  as  an  example  in  the  field  of  modern 
innovation.     With    him    the    centre   of   the    language  has 

*A  blanc  is  an  old  French  copper  coin.    Si.x  blancs  made  one  and  a  half 
pence  in  EngliBh  money.    (Tr. 


ROUSSEAU.  IGl 

not  been  too  much  displaced.  His  successors  have  gone 
farther;  they  have  not  merely  transferred  the  seat  of  the 
Empire  to  Byzantium,  they  have  often  carried  it  to  An- 
tioch,  and  even  to  mid- Asia.  With  them  the  imagination 
in  its  pomp  absorbs  and  dominates  all. 

The  portraits  in  the  Confessions  are  lively,  piquant,  and 
spirituels.  Bach,  the  friend,  Venture,  the  musician,  Si- 
mon, the  jngeinaye,  are  finely  seized  and  observed;  they 
are  not  so  easily  dashed  off  as  in  Gil  Bias,  they  are  rather 
engraved;  Rousseau  has  here  recalled  his  first  trade. 

I  have  been  unable  to  do  moi;e  than  hurriedly  to  in- 
dicate the  leading  particulars  in  Which  the  author  of  the 
Confessions  remains  a  master,  to  salute  this  time  the  cre- 
ator of  the  reverie, —  him  who  has  inoculated  us  with  the 
sentiment  of  nature  and  with  the  sense  of  reality,  the 
father  of  the  literature  of  the  heart,  and  of  internal 
painting  (la  peinture  cTinterieur).  What  a  pity  that  mis- 
anthropic pride  should  be  mingled  with  these  excellences, 
and  that  cynical  remarks  should  cast  a  stain  upon  so  many 
charming  and  genuine  beauties!  But  these  follies  and 
vices  of  the  man  cannot  overcome  his  original  merits,  nor 
hide  from  us  the  great  qualities  in  which  he  shows  himself 
still  superior  to  his  descendants. 


MADAME   GEOFFRIN. 


AFTER    all    that   I   have    said    of  the    women  of    the 
J^     eighteenth  century,   there  would    be    too    great    a 
lacuna  if°  I  did  not  speak  of   Madame  Geoffrin,  who  was 
one    of   the    most    celebrated,    and    whose    influence    was 
greater  than  that  of  any  other.     Madame  Geoffrin  wrote 
only  four  or  five  letters  that  have  been  published;  many 
true    and   piquant  sayings  of   hers  are  quoted;    but   this 
would    not   be    enough    to   keep  her   memory  alive;    that 
which    properly  characterizes  her   and  entitles  her  to  the 
recollection    of    posterity,    is    the   fact    that    she   had    the 
completest,  the  best    organized,  and,   if  I  may  say  it,  the 
best  managed,  the  best  appointed  salon  there  has  been  m 
France  since   salons  came  in  vogue,  that  is  to  say,  since 
the  hotel  RamhouiUet.     The  salon  of  Madame  Geoffrin  was 
one  of  the  institutions  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

There  are  persons,  perhaps,  who  imagine  that,  to  form 
a  salon,  it  is  sufficient  to  be  rich,  to  have  a  good  cook, 
a  comfortable  house  situated  in  a  good  neighborhood,  a 
areat  desire  to  see  people,  and  affability  in  receiving 
them.  Such  a  lady,  however,  only  succeeds  in  crowding 
people  together  pell-mell,  in  filling  her  salon,  not  in  cre- 
ating it;  and  if  she  is  very  rich,  very  active,  and  strongly 
inspired  with  the  kind  of  ambition  that  seeks  to  shine, 
and  if  she  is  at  the  same  time  well  informed  regarding 
the  list  of   invitations    that   should    be    made,   and  deter- 


MADAME    GEOFFRIN,  163 

mined  at  whatever  cost  to  draw  to  her  house  the  kings 
or  queens  of  the  season,  she  may  attain  to  the  glory 
which  some  Americans  win  in  Paris  every  winter:  they 
have  brilliant  routs,  people  attend  them,  hurry  through 
them,  and  the  next  winter  forget  them.  How  far  from 
this  way  of  crowding  people  together,  is  the  art  of  a 
legitimate  establishment!  This  art  was  never  better  un- 
derstood or  practiced  than  in  the  eighteenth  centuiy, 
amidst  the  regular  and  quiet  society  of  that  time,  and 
no  one  pushed  it  farther,  had  a  greater  conception  of  it, 
or  employed  it  with  more  perfection  and  finish  in  all  its 
details,  than  Madame  Geoffrin.  A  Roman  cardinal  could 
not  have  lavished  upon  it  more  shrewdness,  a  greater 
degree  of  fine  and  quiet  skill,  than  she  expended  upon  it 
for  thirty  years.  It  is  especially  while  studying  this  art, 
that  one  becomes  convinced  that  a  great  social  influence 
always  has  an  adequate  cause,  and  that,  underlying  these 
celebrated  successes,  which,  after  a  long  lapse  of  time, 
are  summed  up  in  a  simple  name  which  one  repeats, 
there  have  been  much  labor,  study  and  talent:  in  the 
case  of  Madame  Geoff"rin,  it  must  be  added,  much  good 
sense. 

Madame  GeoflFrin  appears  only  as  an  old  person  at  the 
start,  and  her  youth  steals  away  from  us  into  a  distance 
which  we  shall  not  attempt  to  penetrate.  Plebeian  and 
very  plebeian  by  birth,  born  in  Paris  in  the  last  year  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  Marie-Th^rese  Rodet  was  mar- 
ried on  the  nineteenth  of  July.  1713,  to  Pierre-Francois 
Geoffrin,  an  influential  citizen,  who  was  one  of  the  lieu- 
tenant-colonels of  the  national  guard  at  that  time,  and 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  glass  manufacture.  A  letter 
of  Montesquieu's,  written  in  March,  1748,  shows  us  Mad- 


164 


MONDAY-CHATS. 


ame  Geoffrin  gathering  at  tliat  date  very  good  company 
at  her  house,  and  already  the  centre  of  that  circle  which 
was  to  continue  and  increase  for  twenty-five  years. 
Whence  sprang  this  person  who  was  so  distinguished  and 
so  clever,  and  who  seems  by  no  means  to  have  been 
destined  to  such  a  role,  either  by  her  birth  or  by  her 
worldly  position?  What  had  been  her  early  education? 
The  empress  of  Russia,  Catherine,  put  that  question  one 
day  to  Madame  Geoffrin,  and  was  answered  by  a  letter 
which  must  be  joined  to  all  that  Montaigne  has  said  upon 
education : 

"I  lost   my  father   and   my  mother   while  I  was   yet  in   the 
cradle.     I  was  brought  up  by  an  old  grandmother,  who  had  much 
talent  and  a  well-formed  head.     She  had  received  very  little  edu- 
cation;   but   her  mind   was   so   enUghtened,  so  adroit    so   active, 
that  it  never  failed  her;  it  always  suppUed  the  place  of  knowledge 
She  spoke  so  agreeably  of  things  which  she  was  unacquainted  with 
that  nobody  wished  that  she  understood  them  better;    and  when 
her  ignorance  was  too  evident,  she  extricated  herself  by  pleasan- 
tries which  disconcerted  the  pedants  who  would  have  humiliated 
her      She  was  so  content  with  her  lot,  that  she  regarded  knowl- 
edge as  something  very  useless  to  a  woman.     She  would  say:     1 
ha^e  done  so  well  without  it,  that  I  have  never  felt  the  want  of 
it     If  my  granddaughter  is  a  fool,  knowledge  would  make  her 
piesuming  and  insupportable;  if  she  has  mind  and  sensibility,  she 
S  do  a:  I  have  done,  she  will  supply  her  lack  of  knowledge  by 
address  and  tact;  and  when  she  becomes  wiser  she  ^-"  ^^^^ J«^ 
what  she  is  best  fitted,    and  she  will    earn  it  veiy  ^""^1^,8^6 
therefore,  in  my  childhood,  made  me  learn  «"ly  ^^J^^^'.,^"^^ ^v 
made  me  read    a   good   deal;    she  taught   me  how  to  think  by 
ma    ng  m     reasonf  she  taught  me  how  to  acquire  a  knowledge 
Tmen,  by  asking  me  to  tell  what  I  thouglit  o    them    and  by 
telling  me  also  her  opinion  of  them.    She  obliged  me  to  give  her 
an  account  of  all  my  impulses   and  all   -y,-"^-f "^^'/f^^f 
corrected  them  with  so  much  sweetness   and   mdulgence,  that  I 
neve     concealed  from  her   any  of  my  thoughts    or  feelings:    my 
inner  self  was  as  visible  to  her  as  my  outer.      My  education  was 
unremitting.  ..." 


MADAME    GEOFFRIN.  165 

I  have  said  that  Madame  GeotFrin  was  born  at  Paris: 
she  never  left  it,  except  to  make  in  1766,  at  the  age  of 
sixty-seven,  her  famous  journey  to  Warsaw.  Beyond  this, 
she  had  never  quitted  the  suburbs;  and  even  when  she 
went  into  the  country  to  visit  a  friend,  she  habitually  re- 
turned at  evening,  and  did  not  sleep  away  from  home. 
She  believed  that  there  is  no  better  atmosphere  than  that 
of  Paris,  and  wherever  she  might  have  been,  she  would 
have  preferred  her  Saint-Honore  street  gutter,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  regretted  that  of  Bac  street.  Madame  Geoffrin 
adds  one  name  more  to  the  list  of  Parisian  geniuses  who 
have  been  gifted  with  affable  and  social  qualities  in  so 
high  a  degree,  and  who  are  easily  civilizers. 

Her  husband  appears  to  have  been  of  little  account  in 
her  life,  beyond  securing  to  her  the  fortune  which  was 
the  starting-point  and  the  prime  instrument  of  the  con- 
sideration which  she  knew  how  to  acquire.  M.  Geoffrin 
is  represented  to  us  as  old,  and  sitting  in  silence  at  the 
dinners  which  were  given  at  his  house  to  literaiw  people 
and  savants.  It  is  related  that  attempts  were  made  to  get 
him  to  read  some  work  of  history  or  travels,  and  as  a 
first  volume  was  always  given  to  him  without  his  noticing 
it,  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  "  the  work  was  very  inter- 
esting, but  that  the  author  repeated  himself  a  little."  It 
is  added  that  when  reading  a  volume  of  the  Encydopoidia, 
or  of  Bayle,  which  had  been  printed  in  double  columns, 
he  would  read  a  line  of  the  first  column  and  then  the 
corresponding  line  of  the  second,  which  made  him  say 
that  ''  the  work  appeared  to  him  well  enough,  but  a  little 
abstract."  These  are  such  stories  as  we  should  expect  to 
be  told  of  a  husband  who  Avas  eclipsed  by  a  famous  wife. 
One  day  a  stranger  asked  Madame  Geoffrin  what  had  be- 


166  MON-DAY-CHATS. 

come  of  that  old  gentleman  who  formerly  was  always 
present  at  her  dinners,  but  was  no  longer  seen  there. 
"  It  was  my  husband;  he  is  dead." 

Madame  GeofiFrin  had  a  daughter,  who  oecame  the  mar- 
chioness of  La  Ferte-Imbault,  an  excellent  woman,  it  is 
said,  but  who  lacked  the  calm  good  sense  and  the  perfect 
propriety  of  her  mother,  and  of  whom  the  latter  said 
when  showing  her:  "When  I  look  at  her,  I  seem  like  a 
hen  who  has  hatched  a  duck's  egg.'" 

Madame  Geolfrin,  then,  resembled  her  grandmother, 
and.  with  this  exception,  she  appears  to  have  been  unlike 
any  of  her  family.  Her  talent,  like  all  talents,  was  en- 
tirely personal.  Madame  Suard  represents  her  as  easily 
commanding  respect  "  by  her  lofty  stature,  by  her  silvery 
hair  covered  with  a  cap  tied  under  the  chin,  by  her  dress, 
so  dignified  and  so  becoming,  and  her  looks  in  which 
judgment  was  mingled  with  goodness."'  Diderot,  who  had 
just  played  a  game  of  piquet  with  her  at  the  house  of 
Baron  Holbach,  in  Grandval,  where  she  had  gone  to  dine 
(October,  1760),  wrote  to  a  friend:  "Madame  GeofFrin  was 
very  well.  I  notice  always  the  noble  and  simple  taste 
with  which  that  woman  is  dressed:  it  was,  that  day,  in  a 
simple  stufi",  of  a  sober  color,  with  large  sleeves, —  with 
the  smoothest  and  the  finest  linen,  and  the  most  fastidi- 
ous neatness  in  every  respect."  Madame  Geoffrin  was 
then  sixty-one  years  old.  This  old  lady's  dress,  so  exqui- 
sitely modest  and  simple,  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  recalls 
a  similar  art  of  Madame  Maintenon.  But  Madame  Geof- 
frin did  not  have  to  husband  and  to  preserve  the  remains 
of  a  beauty  which  still  shone  forth  by  gleams  in  the  twi- 
light; at  an  early  day  she  frankly  acknowledged  herself 
to  be  old,   and   suppressed    the   after-season.     Whilst  the 


MADAME   QEOFFRIN.  167 

majority  of  women  are  busy  in  beating  a  retreat  in  good 
order,  and  in  prolonging  their  yesterday's  age,  she  vol- 
untarily got  the  start  of  time,  and  installed  herself  with- 
out grudging  in  her  to-morrow's  age.  "All  other  women," 
said  a  person,  in  speaking  of  her,  "  dress,  as  it  were,  the 
day  before;  it  is  only  Madame  Geoffrin  who  is  always 
dressed,  as  it  were,  to-morrow."' 

Madame  Geoffrin  is  supposed  to  have  taken  her  lessons 
in  high  life  at  Madame  Tencin's,  and  to  have  been  formed 
in  that  school.  People  quote  that  saying  of  Madame  de 
Tencin,  who,  seeing  Mme.  G.,  not  long  before  Madame  T.'s 
death,  assiduously  visiting  her,  said  to  her  visitors:  "Do 
you  know  what  Madame  Geoffrin  comes  here  for?  She 
comes  to  see  what  she  can  gather  from  my  inventory." 
That  inventory  was  worth  the  trouble,  since  it  was  com- 
posed at  the  very  beginning  of  Fontenelle,  Montesquieu, 
and  Mairan.  Madame  de  Tenciii  is  much  less  remarkable 
as  the  author  of  sentimental  and  romantic  stories,  in 
writing  which  she  had,  perhaps,  the  assistance  of  her 
nephews,  than  for  her  intriguing  spirit,  her  adroit  man- 
agement, and  the  boldness  and  comprehensiveness  of  her 
judgments.  Though  she  was  not  a  very  estimable  person, 
and  some  of  her  actions  border  on  criminality,  one  found 
himself  captivated  with  her  look  of  sweetness  and  almost 
of  goodness,  if  he  approached  her.  Even  when  her  own 
interests  were  by  no  means  concerned,  she  would  give 
you  unerring  practical  advice,  by  which  you  might 
profit  in  life.  She  knew  the  end  of  the  game  in  ever}'^- 
thing.  More  than  one  great  politician  would  have  done 
well,  even  in  our  days,  to  have  kept  in  mind  this  maxim, 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  repeat:  "  Intellectual  people 
make  a  great   many  mistakes    in    conduct,    because   they 


168  MONDAY-CHATS. 

never   believe  the  world  to  be  as  stuioid  as  it  is."      The 
nine  letters  of  hers  which  have  been  published,  and  which 
were  addressed  to  the  duke  of  Eichelieu  during  the  cam- 
paign of  1743,  show  her  to  have  been   full  of  ambitious 
intrigues,    striving    to    win    power    for    herself    and    her 
brother  the  cardinal,  at  that  brief  period  when  the  king, 
liberated    by  the   death  of   cardinal   Fleury,  had  no  chief 
mistress.      Never  was  Lewis  XV  judged  more  profoundly, 
and  with   more  enlightened   and  justifiable    sentiments  of 
contempt  than  in  those  nine  letters  of  Madame  de  Tencin. 
In  the  year  1743  this  intriguing  woman  has  some  flashes 
of   penetration  which    pierce    the  horizon.      "  Unless  God 
visibly  interferes,"  she  writes,  "  it  is  physically  impossible 
that  the  state  should  not  fall  to  pieces."     It  is  this  clever 
mistress  whom  Madame  Geoft'rin  consulted,  and  from  v/hom 
she  received  some  good  counsels,  particularly  the  one  never 
to  decline   anybody's  acquaintance,  to  reject  any  friendly 
advances;   for  if  nine   acquaintances  out  of  ten  prove  to 
be  of  no  value,  a  single  one  may  compensate  for  all  the 
rest;    and   then,  as    that  woman   so    fertile   in   expedients 
says  again:  "Everything   is    serviceable    in   housekeeping, 
when  one  knows  how  to  use  the  tools. 

Madame  Geoflfrin,  then,  inherited,  to  some  extent,  the 
salon  and  method  of  Madame  de  Tencin;  but,  in  confining 
her  abilities  to  a  private  sphere,  she  enlarged  them  to  a 
remarkable  degree  and  in  a  way  entirely  honorable. 
Madame  de  Tencin  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  make  her 
brother  a  prime  minister;  Madame  Geoffrin  laid  politics 
aside,  never  intermeddled  with  religious  matters,  and,  by 
her  infinite  art,  by  her  skill  in  following  and  leading, 
became  herself  a  kind  of  clever  administrator  and  almost 
a  great  minister  of  society,  one  of  those  ministers  who  are 


MADAME    GEOFFRI]S\  169 

the  more  influential   because  tliey  are  not  such  titularly, 
and  are  more  permanent. 

She  had  at  the  beginning  a  complete  conception  of  that 
machine  which  is  called  a  salon,  and  knew  how  to  organize 
it  completely  with  its  smooth,  imperceptible  wheel-work, 
skillfully  put  together  and  kept  agoing  by  continual  care. 
She  not  only  comprehended  in  her  solicitude  literary 
people,  properly  so  called,  •  but  she  looked  after  artists, 
sculptors,  and  painters,  to  bring  them  all  into  communi- 
cation with  each  other  and  with  the  people  of  the  world; 
in  a  word,  she  conceived  the  idea  of  the  Encyclopaedia  of 
the  age  acting  and  conversing  around  her.  She  had  every 
week  two  regular  dinners,  that  of  Monday  being  for  artists: 
there  one  saw  the  Vanloos,  the  Vernets,  the  Bouchers,  the 
La  Tours,  the  Viens,  the  Lagrenes,  the  Soufflots,  the  Le- 
moines,  distinguished  amateurs  and  patrons  of  the  arts, 
and  litterateurs  like  Marmontel  to  keep  up  the  conversa- 
tion, and  promote  mutual  intercourse.  On  Wednesday  was 
the  dinner  of  the  men  of  letters:  one  saw  there  D'Alem- 
bert,  Mairan,  Marivaux,  Marmontel,  the  chevalier  Chas- 
telleux,  Morellet,  Saint-Lambert,  Helvetius,  Raynal,  Grimm, 
Thomas,  D'Holbach,  and  Burigny,  of  the  Academy  of 
Inscriptions.  One  woman  only  was  admitted  with  the 
mistress  of  the  house:  it  was  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse. 
Madame  Geoffrin  had  observed  that  several  women  at  a 
dinner  distract  the  guests,  disperse  and  scatter  the  con- 
versation: she  loved  unity  and  to  be  herself  the  centre. 
At  evening,  Madame  Geoffrin's  house  was  still  kept  open, 
and  the  entertainment  ended  with  a  little  supper,  veiy 
simple  and  very  elegant,  given  to  five  or  six  intimate 
friends  at  most,  including  this  time  some  women  who  were 

the  flower  of  the  great  world.     Not  a  stranger  of  distinc- 
8 


170  -  MONDAY-CHATS. 

tion  lived  in  or  passed  through  Paris  without  aspiring  to 
be  admitted  at  Madame  Geoffrin's.  Princes  came  there 
simply  as  private  persons;  ambassadors  did  not  budge  from 
the  place  when  once  they  had  set  foot  there.  Europe  was 
represented  there  in  the  persons  of  the  Caraccioli,  the 
Creutzes,  the  Galianis,  the  Gattis,  the  Humes,  and  the 
Gibbons. 

It  is  seen  already  that  of   all    the   salons  of  the   eigh- 
teenth century,  it  is  Madame  Geoffrin's  which  is  the  com- 
pletest.     It  is  more  so  than  that  of  Madame  Du  Deffand, 
who,  since  the  defection  of  D'Alembert  and  others  in  the 
train  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,   has   lost   nearly  all 
the  men-of-letters.     The  salon  of  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse, 
with  the  exception  of  five  or  six  friends  who  formed   its 
base,  was   itself  made  up  of  people  who   had    little  mut- 
ual  intimacy,  who    had   been   taken   here  and  there,  and 
whom   that    witty   and    intelligent   woman    assorted   with 
infinite  art.      The  salon  of  Madame  Geoffrin,  on  the  con- 
trary, represents  to  us  the  great  centre  and  resort  of  the 
eighteenth    century.      In    its    pure    influence    and    in    its 
lively    regularity,    it    forms    a   counterpoise    to    the    little 
dinners  and  licentious  suppers  of   Mademoiselle  Quinault, 
Mademoiselle  Guimard,  and  the   financiers,  the  Pelletiers, 
the  la  Popelinieres.     Toward  the  end  of  its  existence,  this 
salon  sees  formed,  in  emulation  and  a  little  in  rivalry  of 
it,  the  salons  of  Baron  D'Holbach  and  of  Madame  Helve- 
tius,  partly  composed  of  the  flower  of  Madame  Geoffrin's 
guests,  and  partly  of  some  heads  which  Madame  Geoffrin 
had  found   too   lively  for  admission  to  her  dinners.      The 
age  became  weary,  at  last,  of  being  restrained  and  led  in 
leading-strings  by  her;  it  wanted  to  speak  of  everything 
in  loud  tones  and  to  its  heart's  content. 


MADAME   GEOFFRIN".  171 

The  spirit  which  Madame  Geoffrin  carried  into  the 
management  and  the  economy  of  that  little  empire  which 
she  had  so  liberally  planned,  was  a  natural,  precise,  and 
shrewd  spirit,  which  descended  to  the  smallest  details,  a 
spirit  that  was  at  once  ingenious,  active,  and  gentle. 
She  had  the  carvings  in  her  rooms  planed  off:  it  was 
the  same  with  her  morally,  and  Nothing  in  relief  seemed 
to  be  her  motto.  "My  mind,"  said  she,  "is  like  my  legs; 
I  love  to  walk  on  level  ground,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
climb  a  mountain,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  saying  when  I 
have  reached  the  top:  /  Jiave  climhed  that  mountain.'''' 
She  loved  simplicity,  and,  when  it  was  necessary,  she 
could  affect  it.  Her  activity  was  of  that  kind  which  dis- 
plays itself  chiefly  in  good  order,  that  kind  of  discreet 
activity  which  acts  upon  all  points  almost  silently  and 
insensibly.  Mistress  of  her  house,  she  has  an  eye  upon 
everything;  she  presides,  she  scolds  too,  but  it  is  a  scold- 
ing which  is  peculiar  to  her;  she  wishes  people  to  be 
silent  at  times;  she  keeps  order  in  her  saJon.  With  a 
single  word:  There,  that  will  do,  she  arrests  in  time  the 
conversations  which  are  straying  upon  dangerous  themes 
and  the  wits  that  are  getting  heated;  they  fear  her,  and 
go  and  have  their  uproar  elsewhere.  It  is  a  principle  of 
hers  never  to  talk  herself  except  when  it  is  necessary, 
and  to  intervene  only  at  certain  moments,  without  en- 
grossing the  conversation  too  long.  She  then  introduces 
certain  wise  maxims,  some  piquant  stories,  some  anecdot- 
al and  acted  morality,  commonly  pointed  by  some  strik- 
ing expression  or  very  familiar  illustration.  All  this,  she 
knows,  comes  fitly  only  from  her  own  lips:  she  says  also 
that  "  she  would  have  nobody  else  preach  her  sermons, 
tell  her  tales,  or  touch  her  tongs." 


172  MONDAY-CHATS. 

Having  early  taken  her  position  as  an  old  woman  and 
as  the  mamma  of  the  people  whom  she  receives,  she  has 
a  means  of  government,  a  little  artifice,  which  becomes 
at  last  a  bad  habit  and  a  madness;  it  is  to  scold;  but 
she  knows  how  to  do  it.  Not  everyone  is  scolded  by  her, 
who  wishes  to  be;  it  is  the  highest  proof  of  her  favor 
and  of  her  superintendence.  The  guest  she  likes  the  best 
is  the  best  scolded.  Horace  Walpole,  before  having  passed, 
with  banners  flying,  into  the  camp  of  Madame  Du  Def- 
fand,  wrote  from  Paris  to  her  friend  Gray: 

"  (January,  1766).  Madame  Geoffrin,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
much,  is  an  extraordinary  woman,  with  more  common  sense  than 
I  almost  ever  met  with.  Great  quickness  in  discovering  charac- 
ters, penetration  in  going  to  the  bottom  of  them,  and  a  pencil 
that  never  fails  in  a  likeness,— seldom  a  favorable  one.  She  exacts 
and  preserves,  spite  of  her  birth,  and  their  nonsensical  prejudices 
here  about  nobility,  great  court  and  attention.  This  she  ac<iuires 
by  a  thousand  little  arts  and  offices  of  friendship,  and  by  a  free- 
dom and  severity  which  seem  to  be  her  sole  end  of  drawing  a 
concourse  to  her,  for  she  insists  on  scolding  those  she  inveigles  to 
her.  She  has  little  taste  and  less  knowledge,  but  protects  arti- 
sans and  authors,  and  courts  a  few  people  to  have  the  credit  of 
serving  her  dependents.  She  was  bred  under  the  famous  Madame 
Tencin,  who  advised  her  never  to  refuse  any  man;  for,  said  her 
mistress,  though  nine  m  ten  should  not  care  a  farthing  for  you, 
the  tenth  may  live  to  be  an  useful  friend.  She  did  not  adopt  or 
reject  the  whole  plan,  but  fully  retained  the  purport  of  the  max- 
im. In  short,  she  is  an  epitome  of  empire  subsisting  by  rewards 
and  punishments." 

The  office  of  majordomo  of  her  salon  was  usually  con- 
fided to  Burigny,  one  of  her  oldest  friends,  and  one  of 
the  best  scolded  of  all.  When  there  was  any  infraction 
of  the  rules,  and  an  imprudent  speech  escaped,  it  was 
upon  him  that  she  freely  laid  the  blame,  for  not  main- 
taining good  order. 


MADAME    GEOFFRIN.  173 

People  laughed  at  this,  they  joked  her  about  it,  but 
they  submitted  to  this  government,  which  was  always 
strict  and  exacting,  but  tempered  with  much  goodness 
and  beneficence.  This  right  of  correction  she  ensured  by 
settling  from  time  to  time  upon  you  some  good  little 
life-annuity,  without  forgetting  the  annual  present  of  the 
velvet  breeches. 

Fontenelle  did  not  appoint  Madame  Geoifrin  his  testa- 
mentary executrix  without  good  reasons.  Madame  GeofiFrin 
appears  to  me,  after  a  careful  study  of  her  character,  to 
have  been,  in  the  constitution  of  her  mind,  in  her  habit- 
ual behavior,  and  in  the  kind  of  influence  she  exerted,  a 
female  Fontenelle,  a  Fontenelle  more  actively  benevolent 
(we  shall  return  to  this  trait  presently),  but  a  I'eal  Fon- 
tenelle in  prvidence,  in  her  views  and  provisions  concern- 
ing her  own  happiness,  and  in  her  way  of  speaking  at 
pleasure  familiarly,  epigrammatically,  and  ironically  with- 
out bitterness.  She  is  a  Fontenelle  who,  for  the  very 
reason  that  she  is  a  woman,  has  more  vivacity,  and 
livelier  and  more  affectionate  impulses.  But,  like  him, 
she  loves,  above  everything  else,  repose,  and  walking  upon 
level  ground.  Everything  about  her  that  is  of  a  fiery 
nature  disquiets  _  her,  and  she  believes  that  reason  itself 
is  wrong  when  it  is  passionate.  She  one  day  compared 
her  mind  to  "  a  folded  scroll,  which  opens  and  unrolls 
gradually."  She  was  in  no  hurry  to  unroll  the  whole  at 
once:  "Perhaps  at  my  death,"  she  said,  "the  scroll  will 
not  be  entirely  laid  open."  This  wise  slowness  is  a  dis- 
tinctive trait  of  her  mind  and  of  her  influence.  She 
feared  movements  that  are  too  abrupt  and  changes  that 
are  too  sudden:  "there  is  no  need,"  said  she,  "of  pull- 
ing down  the  old   house,  before  we  have  built  us  a  new 


174  MONDAY-CHATS. 

one."  She  tempered,  as  well  as  she  could,  the  already- 
fiery  age,  and  tried  to  discipline  it.  It  was  a  bad  sign 
with  her,  if  a  person  who  had  belonged  to  her  dinner- 
parties, did  anything  to  send  him  to  the  Bastille;  Mar- 
montel  saw  that  he  had  greatly  lowered  himself  in  her 
esteem,  after  his  Belisarius  affair.  In  a  word,  she  con- 
tinued to  represent  the  already  philosophic,  but  still 
moderate  spirit  of  the  first  part  of  the  century,  so  long 
as  it  did  not  cease  to  recognize  certain  bounds.  I  can 
easily  picture  to  myself  that  constant  study  of  Madame 
Geoffrin  by  an  illustration:  she  had  had  a  wig  added  (a 
marble  wig,  if  you  please,)  to  Falconet's  bust  of  Diderot. 
Her  beneficence  was  great  as  well  as  ingenious,  and,  in 
her  case,  it  was  a  true  gift  of  nature:  she  had  the  giving 
humor,  as  she  said.  To  give  and  to  forgive  was  lier  motto. 
Her  kindness  was  unfailing.  She  could  not  help  making 
presents  to  everybody,  to  the  poorest  man  of  letters  as  well 
as  to  the  empress  of  Germany,  and  she  made  them  with 
that  art  and  exquisite  delicacy  which  do  net  permit  one 
to  refuse  without  a  kind  of  rudeness.  Her  sensibility  was 
perfected  by  the  practice  of  kindness  and  by  an  exquisite 
social  tact.  Her  benevolence,  like  all  her  other  qualities, 
had  something  singular  and  original  in  it,  which  was  seen 
only  in  her.  A  thousand  charming,  unexpected  sayings 
of  hers  have  been  quoted,  by  which  Sterne  might  have 
profited;  I  will  recall  but  one.  Some  one  observed  to  her 
one  day,  that  everything  at  her  house  was  perfect,  except 
the  cream,  which  was  not  good.  "What  can  I  do?"  said 
she,  "  I  cannot  change  my  milk-woman."  "  Why,  what 
has  that  milk- woman  done,  that  she  cannot  be  changed?" 
"I  have  given  her  two  cows."  "A  fine  reason!"  all  cried 
out.     And,  in  truth,  one  day  when  that  milk-woman  was 


MADAME    GEOFFRIN".  175 

weeping  in  despair  at  having  lost  her  cow,  Madame  Geof- 
frin  had  given  her  two  cows,  the  additional  one  being  to 
console  her  for  having  wept  so  much,  and  from  that  day, 
also,  she  could  not  comprehend  that  she  could  ever  change 
that  milk- woman.  Many  persons  would  have  been  just  as 
capable  of  giving  her  a  cow,  or  even  two  cows;  but  to  keep 
the  ungrateful  or  negligent  milk-woman,  in  spite  of  her 
bad  cream,  is  what  they  would  not  have  done.  Madame 
Geoffrin  did  it  for  herself,  that  she  might  not  spoil  the 
memor}"  of  a  charming  deed.  She  wanted  to  do  good  in 
her  own  way ;  it  was  her  distinctive  quality.  Just  as  she 
scolded,  not  to  correct  peoijle,  but  to  please  herself,  so  she 
gave,  not  to  make  people  hapjDy  or  grateful,  but,  mainly, 
for  her  self-satisfaction. 

Her  good  offices  were  marked,  in  a  manner,  by  a  degree 
of  bluntness  and  oddity;  she  had  an  aversion  to  thanks: 
"  Thanks,"  one  has  said,  "  provoked  in  her  an  amiable  and 
almost  serious  anger."  She  had  upon  this  point  a  com- 
plete theory  pushed  to  paradox,  and  she  went  so  far  as  to 
extol  ingratitude  in  all  possible  ways.  One  thing  that  is 
clear  is,  that,  even  in  giving,  she  wished  not  to  let  her  left 
hand  know  tvhat  her  right  hand  did,  and  that  she  knew 
'  how  to  enjoy  all  alone  the  satisfaction  of  obliging  people. 
Shall  T  say  it?  I  think  I  recognize  here,  even  in  the 
midst  of  an  excellent  nature,  that  streak  of  egoism  and  of 
dryness  which  was  inherent  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  pupil  of  Madame  de  Tencin,  the  friend  of  Fontenelle, 
reappears  even  at  the  moment  when  she  yields  to  her 
heart's  propensity;  she  yields  to  it,  but  still  without 
abandonment,  and  while  coolly  planning  everything.  We 
know  also  of  a  beautiful  act  of  benevolence  done  by  Mon- 
tesquieu, after  which  he  abruptly  and  almost  rudely  stole 


176  MONDAY-CHATS. 

away  from  the  thanks  and  the  tears  of  the  person  obliged. 
Contempt  of  men  peeps  out  too  much  here,  even  in  the 
benefactor.  Is  it,  then,  well  in  taking  one's  time  to  de- 
spise them,  to  choose  precisely  the  moment  when  one  is 
uplifting  them,  when  one  pities  them,  and  when  one  is 
making  them  better? 

In  Saint-Panrs  admirable  chapter  on  Charity,  we  read, 
amono-    the    other   characteristics    of    that    divine   virtue: 
"  Caritas    non    quceret    quce    sua    sunt.  .  .  .  Xo>i    cogitat 
malum.     Charity  seeks  not  her   own.  .  .  .  She  thinks  no 
evil."     Here,   on   the   contrary,   this    mundane  and   social 
beneficence  seeks  its  own  pleasure,  its  private  enjoyment, 
and  its  own   satisfaction,   and  a  little  malice  and   irony, 
also,  mingle  with  it.     I  am  aware  of  all  that  may  be  said 
in  behalf  of  this   charming  and   respectable  virtue,  even 
when    it   thinks    only  of  itself.     Madame    Geoffrin,   when 
one  took  her  to  task  about  this,  had   a  thousand  happy 
answers,   shrewd   like   herself:    "  Those,"    said   she,    "  who 
oblige  others  rarely,  have  no  need  of  customary  maxims; 
but  those  who  oblige  often  must  oblige  in  the  way  most 
agreeable  to  themselves,  because  it  is  necessary  to  do  con- 
veniently  wJiat  one  tvishes  to  do  every   day.''     There  is  a 
touch  of  Franklin  in  this  maxim,  of  Franklin  correcting 
and  thickening  a  little  the  too  spiritual  meaning  of  Char- 
ity as  defined  by  Saint-Paul.     Let  us  respect,  let  us  honor, 
then,  the  native  and  deliberate  liberality  of  Madame  Geof- 
frin; but  let  us  remember,  however,  that  in  all  that  good- 
ness and  beneficence  there  is  wanting  a  certain  celestial 
flame,  as  in  all  that  talent  and  in  all  that  social  art  of 
the  eighteenth  century  there  was  wanting  a  flower  of  im- 
agination and   poetry,   a  fond   of  light   equally  celestial. 
Never  does  one  see  in  the  distance  the  blue  of  the  sky  or 
the  brierhtness  of  the  stars. 


MADAME    GEOFFRIJS.  177 

We  have  been  able  already  to  form  an  idea  of  the  mould 
and  quality  of  Madame  Geoftrin's  mind.  Her  dominant 
quality  was  justness  and  good  sense.  Horace  Walpole, 
whom  I  love  to  quote,  a  good  judge  and  one  who  will  be 
regarded  with  little  suspicion,  had  seen  Madame  Geoffrin 
a  good  deal,  before  visiting  at  Madame  Du  Deffand's;  he 
liked  her  exceedingly,  and  never  speaks  of  hers  but  as 
one  of  the  best  heads,  one  of  the  best  understandings  he 
has  met  with,  and  the  person  who  has  the  best  knowledge  of 
the  world.  Writing  to  Lady  Hervey  after  an  attack  of  the 
gout  which  he  had  just  had,  he  said: 

"Madame  Geoffrin  came  and  sat  two  hours  last  night  by  my 
bedside :  I  could  have  sworn  it  had  been  my  Lady  Hervey,  she  was 
so  good  to  me.  It  was  with  so  much  sense,  instruction,  and  cor- 
rection! The  manner  of  the  latter  charms  me.  I  never  saw 
anybody  in  my  days  that  catches  one's  faults  and  vanities  and 
impositions  so  quick,  and  explains  them  to  one  so  clearly,  and 
convinces  one  so  easily.  I  never  liked  to  be  set  right  before! 
You  cannot  imagine  how  I  taste  it!  I  make  her  both  my  con- 
fessor and  director,  and  begin  to  think  I  shall  be  a  reasonable 
creature  at  last,  wnich  I  had  never  intended  to  be.  The  next 
time  I  see  her,  I  believe  I  shall  say,  '  Oh,  Common  Sense,  sit 
down:  I  have  been  thinking  so  and  so;  is  it  not  absurd?' — for 
t'other  sense  and  wisdom,  I  never  liked  them;  I  shall  now  hate 
them  for  her  sake.  If  it  was  worth  her  while,  I  assure  your  lady- 
ship she  might  govern  me  like  a  child." 

Every  time  he  meets  her  he  speaks  of  her  as  being 
reason  itself. 

We  begin  to  form  an  idea  of  the  kind  of  singular  and 
scolding  charm  which  the  good  sense  of  Madame  Geoffrin 
cast  about  her.  She  loved  to  reprimand  her  visitoi'S,  and 
she  made  them,  for  the  most  part,  enjo}'  the  lecture.  It 
is  true  that  if  one  did  not  submit  to  it,  if  one  stole  away 
when  she  desired  to  give  advice  and  reproof,  she  was  not 
pleased,  and  a  little  drier  accent  informed  you  that  she 


178  MONDAY-CHATS. 

was  wounded  in  her  weak  place,  in  her  pretension  to  be 
your  mentor  and  director. 

The  following  note  of  hers  to  David  Hume  has  lately 
been  published,  as  a  sample  of  her  way  of  abusing  (bour- 
rer)  people  when  she  was  pleased  with  them;  I  suppress 
only  the  orthographical  errors,  for  Madame  Geoflfrin  had  no 
knowledge  of  orthography,  and  did  not  conceal  the  fact: 

"All  you  need,  my  fat  rogue,  to  become  a  perfect  fop,  is  to  play 
the  heau  rigourenx,  by  making  no  reply  to  a  billet  doux  which  I 
sent  to  you  by  Gatti.  And,  to  assume  all  possible  airs,  you  wish 
to  give  yourself  that  of  being  modest." 

Madame  de  Tencin  called  the  talented  people  of  her 
world  her  cMttle  (betes);  Madame  Geoffrin  continued  to 
treat  them  somewhat  on  the  same  footing  and  as  a  peda- 
gogue treats  his  pupils.  She  was  a  scold  by  profession, 
by  her  right  as  an  old  woman,  and  par  contenance. 

She  judged  her  friends,  her  visitors  with  perfect  honesty, 
and  some  terrible  sayings  of  hers  have  been  preserved, 
which  escaped  her  when  she  was  no  longer  jesting.  It 
is  she  who  said  of  the  abbe  Trublet,  who  was  called  in 
her  presence  a  man  of  talent  {tin  homme  d'esprit):  "He 
a  man  of  talent!  he  is  a  fool  ruhbed  over  ivith  talent''' 
(frotte  d' esprit).  She  said  of  the  duke  of  Nivernais:  "He 
has  failed  in  everything,  failed  as  a  warrior,  failed  as  an 
a,mhsiSsa.doY,  failed  as  an  author,"  etc.  Rulhiere  read  in  her 
salons  his  manuscript  anecdotes  of  Russia;  she  would  have 
been  glad  if  he  had  thrown  them  into  the  fire,  and  she 
offered  to  indemnify  him  for  so  doing  by  a  sum  of  money. 
Rulhiere  was  indignant,  and  talked  largely  of  all  the  great 
sentiments  of  honor,  of  disinterestedness,  and  love  of  truth ; 
she  replied  only  in  these  words:  "  Do  you  wish  for  more?" 
We  see  that  Madame  Geoffrin  was  gentle  only  when  she 


MADAME    GEOFFRIX.  179 

was  pleased  to  be  so,  and  that  her  benignity  of  disposition 
and  her  beneficence  concealed  a  bitter  experience. 

I  have  already  quoted  Franklin  in  speaking  of  her.  She 
had  certain  maxims  which  seem  to  have  sprung  from  the 
same  calculating,  ingenious,  and  thoroughly  practical  good 
sense,  as  his.  She  had  had  this  maxim  engraved  upon  her 
counters:  "Economy  is  the  source  of  independence  and 
liberty'';  and  also  this:  "We  must  not  let  the  grass  grow 
in  the  pathway  of  friendship." 

Her  mind  was  one  of  those  acute  ones  which  are  wont 
to  judge  at  the  first  view,  and  completely  at  a  glance, 
and  which  rarely  return  to  that  which  they  have  once 
missed.  There  are  some  minds  which  have  a  slight  dread 
of  fatigue  and  ennui,  and  whose  sound  and  sometimes 
penetrating  judgment  is  not  continuous.  Madame  Geof- 
frin,  endowed  in  the  highest  degree  with  this  kind  of 
mind,  dilfered  entirely  in  this  from  Madame  du  Chdtelet, 
for  example,  who  loved  to  follow  out  and  to  exhaust  an 
argument.  These  delicate  and  rapid  minds  are  especially 
fitted  to  know  the  world  and  men;  they  love  to  look 
about,  rather  than  at  one  object.  Madame  Geoff"rin  need- 
ed, in  order  to  avoid  weariness,  a  great  variety  of  per- 
sons and  things.  Haste  in  all  its  forms  paralyzed  her; 
too  great  prolongation  even  of  a  pleasure  rendered  it 
unendurable  to  her;  even  "when  society  was  most  agree- 
able, she  only  wished  that  she  could  enjoy  it  at  her  own 
time  and  as  she  pleased."  A  visit  which  threatened  to 
be  prolonged  and  to  last  for  ever,  made  her  turn  deadly 
pale.  One  day  when  she  saw  the  good  abbe  de  Saint- 
Pierre  installing  himself  at  her  house  for  a  whole  win- 
ter's evening,  she  was  frightened  for  a  moment,  but 
drawing  inspiration  from  the  desperate  situation,  she  did 


180  MONDAY-CHATS. 

SO  well  that  she  utilized  the  worthy  abbe,  and  made  him 
amusing.  He  was  completely  astonished  at  it  himself, 
and  when,  as  he  withdrew,  she  complimented  him  upon 
his  good  conversation,  he  replied:  "Madame,  I  am  but 
an  instrument  upon  which  you  have  well  played."  Mad- 
ame Geotfrin  was  a  skillful  artist. 

In  all  this  I  am  only  quoting  and  condensing  the 
Memoirs  of  the  times.  It  is  a  greater  pleasure  than  is 
supposed,  to  re-read  these  authors  of  the  eighteenth  cent-, 
ury  that  are  regarded  as  secondary,  and  who  are  simply 
excellent  in  plain  prose.  There  is  nothing  else  so  agree- 
able, so  dainty,  and  so  elegant,  as  the  pages  which  Mar- 
montel  has  consecrated  in  his  Memoirs  to  Madame  Geof- 
frin  and  to  pictures  of  that  society.  Morellet  himself, 
when  he  speaks  of  her,  is  not  an  excellent  painter,  but  a 
perfect  analyst;  the  hand  that  writes  is  indeed  a  little 
clumsy,  but  the  pen  is  neat  and  delicate.  Even  Thomas, 
who  is  regarded  as  bombastic,  is  very  agreeable  and  very 
happy  in  expression,  when  speaking  of  Madame  Geoffrin. 
People  are  always  declaring  that  Thomas  is  inflated;  but 
we  ourselves  have  become,  in  our  ways  of  writing,  so 
inflated,  so  metaphorical,  that  Thomas,  when  re-read,  ap- 
pears to  me  simple. 

The  great  event  of  Madams  Geoft'rin's  life  was  the 
journey  she  made  to  Poland  (1766)  to  see  the  king 
Stanislaus  Poniatowski.  She  had  known  him  when  a 
young  man  at  Paris,  and  had  remembered  him  as  well 
as  so  many  others  in  her  acts  of  kindness.  He  had 
hardly  ascended  the  throne  of  Poland,  when  he  wrote  to 
her:  Mamma,  your  son  is  Idng;  and  he  earnestly  begged 
her  to  come  and  visit  him.  Notwithstanding  her  already 
advanced   age,  she   did    not   refuse;    she  went   by  way  of 


MADAME    GEOFFRI]Sr.  181 

Vienna,  and  was  there  the  object  of  marked  attentions 
by  the  sovereigns.  It  has  been  thought  that  a  little 
diplomatic  commission  slipped  in  among  the  main  objects 
of  this  journey.  We  have  some  charming  letters  of  Mad- 
ame Geoffrin  written  from  Warsaw;  they  ran  the  rounds 
of  Paris,  and  it  was  ungenteel  at  the  time  to  be  igno- 
rant of  them.  Voltaire  chose  that  time  to  write  to  her 
as  to  a  power;  he  entreated  her  to  interest  the  king  of 
Poland  in  the  Sirven  family.  Madame  Geoffrin  had  a 
good  head,  and  this  journey  did  not  turn  it.  Marmontel, 
in  his  letters  to  her,  had  appeared  to  believe  that  these 
attentions  paid  by  monarchs  to  a  merely  private  person, 
were  going  to  produce  a  revolution  in  ideas;  Madame 
Geoffrin  set  him  right  in  the  matter: 

"No,  my  neighbor,"  she  replied  (neighbor,  because  Marmontel 
was  living  in  her  house),  "no,  not  a  word  of  all  that:  nothing  of 
that  which  you  are  thinking  of  will  ever  take  place.  Everything 
will  remain  in  the  condition  in  which  I  found  it,  and  you  will 
also  find  my  heart  to  be  still,  as  you  have  known  it,  very  sus- 
ceptible of  friendship." 

Writing  also  to  D'Alerabert  from  Warsaw,  she  said, 
felicitating  herself  upon  her  lot,  and  without  enthusiasm: 

"  This  journey  made,  I  feel  that  I  shall  have  seen  enough  of 
men  and  of  things  to  be  convinced  that  they  are  everywhere 
nearly  the  same.  I  have  my  storehouse  of  reflections  and  com- 
parisons well  furnished  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

She  adds,  with  a  sensibility  alike  touching  and  ele- 
vated, concerning  her  royal  pupil: 

"It  is  a  terrible  position,  to  be  king  of  Poland.  I  dare  not 
say  how  unfortunate  I  find  him:  alas!  he  feels  it  only  too  often. 
All  that  I  have  seen  since  I  quitted  my  Penates,  will  make  rae 
thank  God  for  having  been  born  a  Frenchwoman  and  a  private 
citizen.'''' 

On  returning  from  this  journey,  during  which  she  had 


182  MONDAY-CHATS. 

been  loaded  with  honors  and  consideration,  she  redoubled 
her  clever  modesty.  We  may  believe  that  that  modesty 
of  hers  was  but  a  gentler  manner,  and  full  of  taste,  of 
manifesting  her  self-love  and  her  glory.  But  she  excelled 
in  that  discreet  and  adjusted  manner.  Like  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  she  belonged  to  the  race  of  glorious  modest 
persons.  When  she  was  complimented  and  questioned 
about  her  journey,  whether  she  replied  or  did  not  reply, 
there  was  no  affectation  either  in  her  words  or  her 
silence.  Nobody  knew  better  than  she,  better  than  that 
plain  Parisian  woman,  the  art  of  dealing  with  the  great, 
of  obtaining  from  them  what  is  wanted,  without  either 
keeping  in  the  background  or  making  a  parade,  and  of 
keeping,  in  everything  and  with  everybody,  an  air  of 
ease  within  the  limit  of  propriety. 

Like  all  powers,  she  had  the  honor  of  being  attacked. 
Palissot  tried  twice  to  traduce  her  upon  the  stage,  under 
the  title  of  the  patron  of  the  Encyclopaedists.  But  of  all 
attacks,  the  sharpest  must  have  been  the  publication  of 
Montesquieu's  familiar  Letters,  which  the  abbe  Guasco 
had  printed  in  1767,  to  annoy  her.  Some  words  of  Mon- 
tesquieu against  Madame  GeoflVin  indicate  plainly  enough 
what  one  might  otherwise  suspect,  that  a  little  intrigue 
and  manoeuvring  always  creep  in  where  there  are  men 
to  be  governed,  even  when  women  themselves  are  charged 
with  the  task.  Madame  Geoffrin  had  also  the  credit  of 
having  the  publication  arrested,  and  the  passages  in 
which  she  was  noticed  were  cancelled. 

There  were  some  singular  cii'cumstances  connected 
with  Madame  Geoflfrin's  last  sickness.  While  sustain- 
ing the  Encyclopedia  with  her  gifts,  she  was  always 
more   or   less  religious.      La  Harps  relates  that  she  had 


MADAME    GEOFFKI]Sr.  183 

J 

at  her  service  a  Capuchin  confessor,  an  easy-going  (a 
tres-large  manche),  confessor,  for  the  convenience  of  her 
friends  who  might  have  need  of  him,  for,  as  she  was  not 
pleased  if  one  of  her  friends  did  anything  to  send  him 
to  the  Bastille,  she  was  equally  displeased  when  one  died 
without  confession.  As  for  herself,  while  she  lived  with 
the  philosophers,  she  went  to  the  mass,  as  one  goes  in 
prosperity,  and  she  had  her  seat  at  the  church  of  the 
Capuchins,  as  other  persons  would  have  had  their  petite 
niaisoii.  Age  strengthened  this  seriou.s  or  becoming  dis- 
position. At  the  end  of  a  Jubilee  which  she  followed  up 
too  strictly  in  the  summer  of  1776,  she  fell  into  a  para- 
lytic state,  and  her  daughter,  taking  advantage  of  this 
circumstance,  shut  the  door  on  the  philosophers,  whose 
influence  upon  her  mother  she  dreaded.  D'Alembert, 
Marmontel,  Morellet,  were  rudely  excluded;  so  rumor  said. 
Purgot  wrote  to  Condorcet:  "I  pity  that  poor  Madame 
Geotfrin  for  being  obliged  to  suffer  this  slaver}',  and  to  have 
her  last  moments  poisoned  by  her  vile  daughter."  Mad- 
ame Geoffrin  was  no  longer  her  own  mistress;  even  when 
she  came  to  her  senses,  she  felt  that  she  must  choose 
between  her  daughter  and  her  friends,  and  blood  won  the 
day:  "My  daughter,"  said  she,  smiling,  "is  like  Godfrey 
de  Bouillon,  she  wants  to  defend  my  tomb  against  the 
Infidels."  She  secretly  sent  to  these  same  Infidels  her 
regards  and  regrets;  she  sent  them  presents.  Her  reason 
was  enfeebled;  but  the  mould  of  her  mind  never  changed, 
and  she  revived  enough  to  utter  some  of  those  sayings 
which  showed  that  she  was  still  like  herself.  Her  friends 
talked  by  her  bedside  upon  the  means  which  governments 
might  employ  to  render  the  people  happy,  and  each  per- 
son began  to  invent  great  things:   "Add  to  it,"  she  said, 


184  MONDAY-CHATS. 

"the    care    of   procuring    pleasures,  a   thing    with    which 
one  does  not  sufficiently  occupy  himself." 

She  died  in  the  parish  of  Saint-Roch,  October  6,  1777. 
The  name  of  Madame  GeofFrin,  and  the  peculiar  influence 
she  exerted,  have  naturally  called  to  mind  another  ami- 
able name,  which  it  is  too  late  to  compare  here  with  hers. 
The  Madame  Geoifrin  of  our  days,  Madame  Recamier, 
had,  in  a  greater  degree  than  the  other,  youth,  beauty, 
poetry,  grace,  the  star  on  the  forehead,  and,  let  us  add, 
a  goodness  not  more  ingenious,  but  more  angelic.  The 
equality  which  Madame  Geoffrin  showed,  in  addition,  in 
the  administration  of  a  larger  and  more  important  salon, 
was  a  judgment  which  was  firmer  and,  in  some  sense, 
more  at  home, —  which  was  at  less  pains  and  expense,  and 
sacrificed  less,  to  please  others;  it  was  that  singular  good 
sense,  of  which  Walpole  has  given  so  good  an  idea,  a 
mind  not  only  refined  and  acute,  but  just  and  penetrating. 
July  23,  1850. 


JOUBERT. 


A  PERSON  was  astonished  one  day  that  Geoffroy  could 
return  again  and  again  to  the  same  theatrical  piece, 
and  make  so  many  articles  uj^on  it.  One  of  his  witty 
brethren,  M.  de  Feletz,  replied:  "Geoffroy  has  three  ways 
of  making  an  article:  to  assert,  to  re-assert,  and  to  contra- 
dict himself  {dire,  redire,  et  se  contradire).''''  I  have  al- 
ready spoken  more  than  once  of  M.  Joubert,  and  to-day  I 
would  like  to  speak  of  him  again,  without  repeating  and 
without  contradicting  myself.  The  new  edition  *  which  is 
now  publishing  will  furnish  me  with  the  occasion  and 
perhaps  with  the  means  of  doing  so. 

The  first  time  that  I  spoke  of  M.  Joubert,  I  had  to 
answer  this  question,  which  one  had  a  right  to  ask  me: 
"Who  is  M.  Joubert?"  To-day  the  question  will  no 
longer  be  asked.  Although  he  may  not  be  destined  ever 
to  become  popular  as  a  writer,  the  first  publication  of  his 
two  volumes  of  "  Thoughts  and  Letters,"  in  1842,  suflBced 
to  give  him  a  place,  at  the  very  outset,  in  the  esteem  of 
connoisseurs  and  judges,  and  to-day  it  is  only  necessary  to 
extend  a  little  the  circle  of  his  readers. 

His  life  was  simple,  and  I  recall  it  here  only  for  those 
who  love  to  know  what  kind  of  a  man  one  speaks  of  when 
he  treats  of  an  author.  M.  Joubert,  who  was  born  in 
1754  and  died  in  1824,  was,  in  his  life-time,  as  little  of 

*0f  his  "Pens^es,  Essais,  Maximes  et  Correspondance." 
8* 


j^gg  MONDAY-CHATS. 

an  author  as  possible.     He  was  one  of  those  happy  spirits 
who    pass  their  lives  in    thinking,  in  talking   with  their 
friends,  in  dreaming  in  solitude,  in  meditating  upon  some 
work   which  they  will  never   accomplish,  and  which  will 
come  to  us  only  in  fragments.     These  fragments,  by  their 
quality,  and  in  spite  of  some  faults  of  a  too  subtle  thought, 
are  in  this  instance  sufficiently  meritorious  to  entitle  the 
author  to  live  in  the  memory  of  the  future.     M.  Joubert 
was,  in  his  day,  the  most  delicate  and  the  most  original 
type  of  that  class  of  honest  people  which  the  old  society 
alone  produced,— spectators,  listeners  who  had  neither  am- 
bition nor  envy,  who  were  curious,  at  leisure,  attentive,  and 
disinterested,  who  took  an  interest  in  everything,  the  true 
amate^irs  of  beautiful  things.     "  To  converse  and  to  know, 
—  it  was  in  this,  above  all  things,  that  consisted,  accord- 
ing to  Plato,  the  happiness  of  private  life."     This  class  of 
connoisseurs  and  of  amateurs,  so  fitted  to  enlighten  and 
to    restrain    talent,    has    almost    disappeared    in    France 
since    every  one    there   has    followed   a  profession.     "We 
should  always,"  said  M.  Joubert,  "  have   a  corner  of  the 
head   open  and  free,  that  we  may  have    a   place    for   the 
opinions  of  our  friends,  where  we  may  lodge  them  provi- 
sionally.    It  is  really  insupportable  to  converse  with  men 
who  have,  in  their  brains,  only  compartments  which  are 
wholly   occupied,    and    into    which    nothing    external   can 
enter.     Let  us  have   hospitable   hearts   and    minds."     Go, 
then,  to-day,  and  demand  intellectual  hospitality,  welcome 
for   your    ideas,    your    growing   views,    of    hurried,    busy 
minds,  filled  wholly  with  themsMves,  true  torrents  roar- 
ing with  their  own  thoughts l/M.  Joubert,  in  his  youth, 
coming  m  1778  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  from  his  prov- 
ince   of   P6rigord    to    Paris,  found   there    what   one   finds 


JOUBERT.  187 

no  longer  to-day;  he  lived  there  as  one  lived  then:  he 
chatted.  What  he  did  in  those  days  of  youth  may  be 
summed  up  in  that  single  word.  He  chatted  then  with 
famous  people  of  letters;  he  knew  Marmontel,  La  Harpe, 
D'Alembert;  he  knew  especially  Diderot,  by  nature  the 
most  gracious  and  the  most  hospitable  of  spirits.  The 
influence  of  the  latter  upon  him  was  great,  greater  than 
one  would  suppose,  seeing  the  difference  in  their  conclu- 
sions. Diderot  had  certainly  in  M.  Joubert  a  singular 
pupil,  one  who  was  pure-minded,  finally  a  Platonist  and 
a  christian,  smitten  with  the  heaii  ideal  and  saintliness; 
studying  and  adoring  piety,  chastity,  modesty,  and  never 
finding,  to  express  himself  upon  these  noble  subjects,  any 
style  sufficiently  ethereal,  nor  any  expression  sufficiently 
luminous.  However,  it  is  only  by  that  contact  with 
Diderot  that  one  can  fully  explain  the  inoculation  of 
M.  Joubert  with  certain  ideas,  then  so  new,  so  bold, 
and  which  he  rendered  truer  by  elevating  and  rectifying 
them,  M.  Joubert  had  his  Diderot  period  when  he  tried 
everything;  later,  he  made  a  choice.  Always,  even  at  an 
early  day,  he  had  tact;  taste  did  not  come  to  him  till 
afterward.  "  Good  judgment  in  literature,"  said  he,  "  is 
a  very  slow  faculty,  which  does  not  reach  the  last  point 
of  its  growth  till  very  late."  Reaching  that  point  of  ma- 
turity, M.  Joubert  was  sufficiently  just  to  Diderot  to  say 
that  there  are  many  more  follies  of  style  than  follies  of 
thought  in  his  works.  It  was  especially  for  his  interest 
and  initiation  in  art  and  literature  that  he  was  indebted 
to  Diderot.  But,  in  falling  into  a  soul  so  delicate  and 
so  light,  those  ideas  of  literary  reform  and  of  the  regen- 
eration of  art,  which  in  Diderot  had  preserved  a  kind  of 
homely  and  prosaic,  a  smoky  and  declamatory  character, 


188  MONDAY-CHATS. 

were  brightened  and  purified,  and  assumed  an  ideal  char- 
acter which    approximated   them   insensibly   to  the  Greek 
beauty;  for  M.  Joubert  was  a  Greek,  he  was  an  Athenian 
touched  with  the  Socratic  grace.     "  It  seems  to  me,"  said 
he,  "much  more  difficult  to  be  a  modern  than  to  be  an 
ancient."     He  was  especially  an  ancient  in  the  calmness 
and  moderation  of  his  sentiments;  he  disliked  everything 
that  was  sensational,  all  undue  emphasis.     He  demanded 
a  lively  and  gentle  agreeableness,  a  certain  internal,  per- 
petual joy,  giving  to  the  movement  and  to  the  form  ease 
and    suppleness,    to    the    expression    clearness,    light    and 
transparency.     It   is   principally   in   these   that    he    made 
beauty  consist: 

"The  Athenians  were  dehcate  in  mind  and  ear.  They  never 
would  have  endured  a  word  fitted  to  displease,  even  though  one 
had  only  quoted  it.  One  would  say  that  they  were  always  in  good 
humor  when  writmg.  They  disapproved  in  style  of  the  austerity 
which  reveals  hard,  harsh,  sad,  or  severe  manners." 

He  said  again: 

"Those  proud  Romans  had  a  hard  ear,  which  it  was  necessary 
to  caress  a  long  time  to  dispose  them  to  listen  to  beautiful  things. 
Hence  that  oratorical  style  which  one  finds  even  in  their  wisest 
historians.  The  Greeks,  on  the  contrary,  were  endowed  with  per- 
fect organs,  easv  to  put  in  play,  and  which  it  was  only  necessary 
to  touch  in  order  to  move  them.  Again,  the  simplest  dress  of  an 
elegant  thought  sufficed  to  please  them,  and  in  descriptions  they 
were  satisfied  with  pure  truth.  They  observed  especially  the  maxim. 
NotMnfi  hi  excess.  Much  choice  and  purity  in  the  thoughts;  words 
assorted  and  beautiful  by  their  own  harmony;  finally,  the  sobriety 
required  to  prevent  anything  from  weakening  an  impression, 
these  formed  the  character  of  their  literature." 

Upon  Pigalle  and  modern  statuary  as  opposed  to  the 
ancient,  on!  might  cite  from  him  thoughts  of  the  same 
kind,  whole  pages  which  mark  at  once  and  very  clearly 
in    what    respect   he    agrees   with    Diderot,    and    wherein 


JOUBERT.  189 

he  separates  from  him.  Thus,  then,  about  the  epoch  of 
"89,  there  was  in  France  a  man  already  at  maturity, 
thirty  years  old,  eight  years  older  than  Andre  Chenier, 
and  fourteen  years  older  than  Chateaubriand,  who  was 
fully  prepared  to  comprehend  them,  to  unite  them,  to 
furnish  them  with  incitements  and  new  views,  to  enable 
them  to  extend  and  complete  their  horizon.  This  was 
the  part,  indeed,  of  M.  Joubert  touching  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand, whom  he  knew  in  1800,  on  the  return  of  the 
latter  from  London.  M.  de  Chateaubriand,  at  that  fine 
period  of  his  life  (that  fine  period,  for  me,  is  the  lit- 
erary period,  and  extends  from  Atala,  by  Rene,  by  The 
MarUjrs,  even  to  the  Last  of  the  Abencerrages),  M.  de 
Chateaubriand  had  then,  as  a  poet,  a  happiness  which 
very  few  persons  enjoy:  he  found  two  friends,  two  dis- 
tinct critics,  Fontanes  and  Joubert,  made  expressly  for 
him,  to  inform  him  or  to  guide  him.  One  has  commonly 
but  one  guardian  angel,  he  then  had  two:  one  entirely 
guardian,  Fontanes,  restraining  him  in  private,  defending 
him  when  necessary  before  everybody,  covering  him  with 
a  buckler  in  the  melee;  the  other,  rather  fitted  to  incite 
and  to  inspire, —  M.  Joubert,  who  encouraged  him  in  an 
undertone,  or  murmured  to  him  sweet  counsel  in  a  con- 
tradiction full  of  grace.  The  best,  the  finest  criticism  to 
be  made  upon  the  first  and  great  literary  works  of  M. 
de  Chateaubriand,  might  still  be  found  in  the  Letters 
and  Thoughts  of  M.  Joubert.  This  is  not  the  place 
to  examine  and  to  disentangle  that  criticism;  I  shall, 
nevertheless,  touch  somewhat  upon  it  presently. 

The  life  of  Joubert  is  all  in  his  thoughts;  but  one 
would  not  say  of  that  life  the  little  that  is  to  be  said  of 
it,  if  he  did  not  speak  of   Madame  de  Beaumont.     That 


190  MONDAY-CHATS. 

daughter  of  the  old  minister,  M.  de  Montmorin,  who 
escaped  during  the  Reign  of  Terror  from  the  fate  of  the 
rest  of  her  family,  and  who  found  favor  on  account  of 
her  weakness  and  paleness,  was  one  of  those  touch- 
ing beings  who  only  glide  through  life,  and  who  leave 
there  a  trace  of  light.  M.  .Joubert,  who  was  already 
married,  and  who  spent  a  part  of  the  year  at  Villeneuve- 
sur-Yonne,  had  met  her  in  Burgundy  at  the  door  of  a 
cottage,  where  she  had  taken  refuge.  He  was  imme- 
diately attached  to  her;  he  loved  her.  He  would  have 
loved  her  with  a  sentiment  livelier  than  friendship,  if 
there  had  been  for  this  exquisite  soul  a  livelier  sentiment. 
Madame  Beaumont,  still  young,  had  infinite  grace.  Her 
mind  was  quick,  solid,  exalted;  her  form  delicate  and 
aerial.  She  had  formerly  known  and  appreciated  Andre 
Chenier.  Rulhiere  had  had  a  seal  engraved  for  her  which 
represented  an  oak  with  this  device:  "A  breath  agitates 
me;  nothing  shakes  me."  The  device  was  just;  but  the 
image  of  the  oak  may  seem  somewhat  proud.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  that  frail  and  graceful  shell,  that  sensitive  reed, 
which  seemed  to  abandon  itself  to  the  least  breath,  enclosed 
a  strong,  ardent  soul,  capable  of  a  passionate  devotion. 
Struck  in  her  tenderest  place,  victim  of  an  ill-assorted 
union,  she  had  little  .love  for  life;  mortally  attacked,  she 
felt  that  it  was  fleeing  from  her,  and  she  hastened  to  give 
it  up.  While  waiting  for  death,  her  noble  mind  was 
prodigal  of  itself,  happy  in  scattering  sweet  approvals 
about  her.  One  has  said  of  Madame  de  Beaumont  that 
she  loved  merit  as  others  love  beauty.  When  M.  de 
Chateaubriand,  coming  to  Paris,  was  presented  to  her, 
she  immediately  recognized  that  merit  under  its  most 
seductive  form  of   poetry,  and  she  adored  it.      Hers  was, 


JOUBERt.  191 

after  his  sister  Lucille's,  the  first  great  devotion  which  that 
figure  of  Rene  inspired, —  that  figure  which  was  to  inspire 
more  than  one  other  afterward,  though  none  of  greater 
value.  With  what  feeling  she  inspired  M.  Joubert,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  define:  it  was  an  active,  tender,  per- 
petual solicitude,  without  excitement,  without  uneasiness, 
full  of  warmth,  full  of  radiance.  That  too  lofty  spirit, 
which  knew  not  how  to  move  slowly,  loved  to  fly  and 
perch  itself  near  her.  He  had,  as  he  said,  a  chilly  mind; 
he  loved  to  have  it  pleasant  and  warm  about  him;  he 
found  in  her  society  the  serenity  and  the  warmth  of 
afi"ection,  which  he  desired,  and  he  drew  strength  from 
the  indulgence.  As  she  despised  life,  he  preached  to  her 
constantly  upon  the  care  and  love  of  it;  he  would  have 
had  her  learn  again  to  hope.      He  wrote  to  her:- 

"I  am  paid  for  desiring  your  health,  since  I  have  seen  you; 
I  know  its  importance,  since  I  have  it  not.  That,  you  say,  will 
be  the  sooner  done  with.  Yes,  sooner,  but  not  soon.  One  is  a 
long  time  dying,  and  if,  roughly  speaking,  it  is  sometimes  agree- 
able to  be  dead,  it  is  frightful  to  be  dying  for  ages.  Finally,  we 
must  love  life  while  we  have  it:  it  is  a  duty." 

He  repeats  to  her  this  truth  of  morality  and  of  friend- 
ship in  all  its  forms;  he  wished,  if  possible,  to  lessen  and 
to  moderate  the  activity  which  was  consuming  her  and 
wasting  her  frail  organs.  He  wished  to  insinuate  Madame 
de  La  Fayette's  sentiment  of  resignation:  It  is  enough 
to  he. 

"Be  quiet  in  love,  in  esteem,  in  veneration,  I  pray  you  with 
joined  hands.  It  is,  I  assure  you,  at  this  moment  the  only  way 
to  commit  but  few  mistakes,  to  adopt  but  few  errors,  to  suffer 
but  few  ills."  "To  live,"  he  said  to  her  again,  "is  to  think 
and  to  be  conscious  of  one's  soul;  all  the  rest,  eating,  drinking, 
etc.,  although  I  value  them,  are  but  preparations  for  living,  the 
means  of  preserving  life.    If  one  could  do  without  them,  I  could 


192  MONDAY-CHATS. 

easily  resign  myself  thereto,   and  I  could  very  well  dispense  with 
my  body,  if  one  would  leave  me  all  my  soul." 
7      He  had  reasons    for   speaking    thus,   he    of   whom   one 
[has  said  that  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  soul  which  has 
\encountered  a  body  by  chance,  and  which  gets  along  with 
it  as  it  can.     He  commended  to  that  lovely  friend  repose, 
immobility,  that  she  should  follow  the  only  regimen  which 
he  found  good    for  himself,— to    remain  a  long    time    in 
bed  and  to  count  the  joists.     He  added: 
_-^    ^'Your  activity  disdains  such  a  happiness;  but  see  if  your  reason 
does  not  approve  of  it.    Life  is  a  duty;  we  must  make  a  pleasure 
of  it,  so  far  as  we  can,  as   of  all  other  duties.     If  the  care  of 
cherishing  it  is  the  only  one  with  which   it  pleases  Heaven  to 
charge  us,  we  must  acquit  ourselves  gaily  and  with  the  best  pos- 
sible grace,  and  poke  that  sacred  fire,  while  warming  ourselves  by 
it  all  we  can,  till  the  word  conies  to  us:   That  will  dor 

These  tender  recommendations  were   useless.     Madame 
de  Beaumont   had    so    little    attachment    to    life,  that    it 
seemed    as    if    it    depended    only    upon    herself    whether 
she  should  live.     Pure  illusion!    she  was  but   too   really 
attacked,  and  she  herself  had    but   little  to  do  to  hasten 
her   end.      She    decided    to   go  to  the    waters    of    Mont- 
Dore  in  the  summer  of  1803,  and   thence    to  set  out  for 
Rome,  where   she    rejoined   M.  de  Chateaubriand;  shortly 
after  her    arrival   there    she  died.     One    should  read   the 
letter  of  M.  Joubert,  written  during    that    trip  to  Rome. 
He  had  not  believed    in   that  departure;    he  had  secretly 
hoped  that  she  would  shrink  from   so   much  fatigue  and 
such    occasions    of   exhaustion.     The  last  letter  which  he 
addressed    to    her  (October    12,  1803,)    is   filled    with    an 
anxious  tenderness;    one  perceives  in  it  a  kind  of  revela- 
tion, long  withheld,  which  he  finally  made  to  himself:  he 
had  never  before  confessed  to  himself,  so  plainly,  how  much 
he  loved  her,  how  necessary  she  was  to  him.     He  wrote: 


JOUBERT.  193 

"  All  my  mind  has  returned  to  me;  it  gives  me  many  pleasures; 
but  a  despairing  reflection  corrupts  them;  I  have  you  no  longer, 
and  surely  I  shall  not  have  you  for  a  long  time  within  reach,  to 
hear  what  I  think.  The  pleasure  I  formerly  had  in  speaking  is  en- 
tirely lost  to  me.  I  have  made  a  vow  of  silence;  I  remain  here  for 
the  winter.  My  inner  life  is  going  to  be  spent  wholly  with  [entre) 
Heaven  and  myself.  My  soul  will  preserve  its  wonted  habits,  but 
I  have  lost  its  dehghts." 

In  conclusion,  he  cries: 

"Adieu,  adieu,  cause  of  so  many  pains,  who  hast  been  for  me 
so  often  the  source  of  so  many  blessings.  Adieu!  preserve  your- 
self, take  care  of  yourself,  and  return  some  day  among  us,  if  only 
to  give  me  for  a  single  moment  the  inexpressible  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  again." 

In  the  two  preceding  years  (1800-1803)  there  had 
been  formed  about  Madame  de  Beaumont  a  little  re- 
union, often  spoken  of,  which  was  very  short  in  dura- 
tion, but  which  had  life  and  activity,  and  which  deserves 
to  hold  a  place  by  itself  in  literary  history.  It  was  the 
hour  when  society  was  everywhere  regenerated,  and  many 
salons  then  offered  to  those  who  had  recently  been  exiled 
and  shipwrecked  the  enjoyments,  so  desired,  of  conversa- 
tion and  intellectual  intercourse.  There  were  the  phil- 
osophic and  literary  circles  of  Madame  Suard  and  Mad- 
ame d'Houdetot,  and  that  of  the  abbe  Morellet  (held  by  his 
niece,  Madame  Cheron);  there,  pi'operly  speaking,  literary 
people  and  philosophers  held  sway,  who  directly  pro- 
longed the  last  century.  There  were  the  fashionable 
salons,  of  a  more  varied  and  diverse  composition;  the 
salon  of  Madame  de  la  Briche;  that  of  Madame  de 
Vergennes,  where  her  daughter,  Madame  de  Remusat, 
distinguished  herself;  that  of  Madame  de  Pastoret,  that 
of   Madame   de   Stael    when    she    was    at  Paris;    and   yet 

others,  of  which  each  had  its  hue  and  its  dominant  tone. 
9 


194  MOSTDAY-CHATS. 

But,  in  a  corner  of  Neuve-du-Luxembourg  street,  a  salon 
much  less  visible,   much    less    exposed,  gathered    together 
some  friends  in  intimate  union  about  a  lady  of   superior 
quality.     In  that  place  were  to  be  found  youth,  the  new 
sentiment,    and    the  future.     The    haUtues    of   the    place 
were  M.  de  Chateaubriand,    even   his   sister  Lucille  for  a 
whole    winter,    M.    Joubert,    Fontanes,   M.  M0I6,  M.  Pas- 
quier,  Chenedolle,  M.  Greneau  de  Mussy,  one  M.  JuUien, 
well  instructed  in  English   literature,  Madame  de  Venti- 
mille.     These  were  the  body  of  the  assemblage:  the  others 
whom  one  might  name    came    only  as  it  happened.     The 
sunstroke   which    followed   the    eighteenth    brumaire   had 
made    itself   felt    more  in  this  corner   of   the  world  than 
elsewhere;    one    loved,   one    adopted   with    pleasure    every 
kind    of   genius,  every  new  talent;    one   enjoyed  them  as 
enchanters;  imagination  had  flowered  again,  and  one  might 
have  inscribed  on  the  door  of  the  place  the  saying  of  M. 
Joubert:  "Admiration  has  reappeared,,  and  rejoiced  a  sad- 
dened earth." 

These  happy  meetings,  these  complete  reunions  here 
below,  last  but  a  day.  After  the  loss  of  Madame  de 
Beaumont,  M.  Joubert  continued  to  live  and  to  think, 
but  with  less  delight;  he  conversed  often  of  her  with 
Madame  de  Vintimille,  the  best  female  friend  whom  she 
had  left:  but  such  a  reunion  as  that  of  1802  was  never 
formed  again,  and,  at  the  end  of  the  Empire,  politics  and 
business  had  loosened,  if  not  dissolved,  the  ties  of  the 
principal  friends.  M.  Joubert,  isolated,  living  with  his 
books,  with  his  dreams,  noting  his  thoughts  on  uncon- 
nected bits  of  paper,  would  have  died  without  leaving 
anything  finished  or  enduring,  if  one  of  the  relatives  of 
the  family,  M.  Paul  Raynal,  had  not  had  the  pious  care  to 


JOUBERT.  195 

collect  these  fragments,  to  set  them  in  a  certain  order, 
and  to  make  of  them  a  kind  of  series  of  precious  stones. 
These  are  the  volumes  of  which  a  second  edition  is  pub- 
lished to-day. 

Since  I  have  spoken  of  precious  stones,  I  will  say,  right 
at  the  beginning,  that  there  are  too  many  of  them.  An 
English  poet  (Cowley)  has  said:  "One  concludes  by  doubt- 
ing whether  the  milky-way  is  composed  of  stars,  there 
are  so  many  of  theml"  There  are  too  many  stars  in  the 
heaven  of  M.  Joubert.  One  would  like  more  intervening 
spaces  and  more  repose.  "  I  am  like  Montaigne,"  said  he, 
"  unfit  for  continuous  discourse.  Upon  all  subjects,  it 
seems  to  me,  I  either  lack  intermediate  ideas,  or  they 
weary  me  too  much."  These  intermediate  ideas,  if  he 
had  given  himself  the  trouble  to  express  them,  would  not 
have  wearied  us,  it  seems,  but  would  rather  have  given  us 
repose  in  reading  him.  One  is  conscious  in  his  writings 
of  an  ctfort, —  often  happy,  yet  an  effort.     "If  there  is  a\ 

^•''man,"  he  says,  "  tormented  with  the  accursed  ambition  of 
putting  a  whole   book  into  a  page,  a  whole  page   into  a 

1  phrase,  and  that  phrase  into  a  word,  it  is  I."  His  meth- 
od is  always,  to  express  a  thought  in  an  image ;  the  thought 
and  the  image  make,  for  him,  but  one  thing,  and  he  be- 
lieves that  he  has  grasped  the  one  only  when  he  has  found 
the  other.  "  It  is  not  my  phrase  that  I  polish,  but  my 
idea.  I  stop  till  the  drop  of  light  which  I  need  is  formed 
and  falls  from  my  pen."  This  series  of  thoughts,  then,  are 
only  drops  of  light;  the  mind's  eye  is  at  last  dazzled  by 
them.  "  I  would  like,"  says  he,  defining  himself  with 
marvellous  correctness,  "I  would  like  to  infuse  exquisite 
sense  into  common  sense,  or  to  render  exquisite  sense 
common."     Good  sense  alone  wearies  him;  the  ingenious 


196  MONDAY-CHATS. 

without  good  sense   rightly  appears  to  him  contemptible; 
he  wishes  to  unite  the  two,  and  it  is  no  small  undertak- 
ing.    "Oh!  how  difficult  it  is,"  he  cries,  "to   be  at  once 
ino-enious    and   sensible!"     La  Bruyere,   before   him,    had 
felt  the  same  difficulty,  and  had  avowed  it  to  himself  at 
the  beginning:  "All  is  said,  and  one  comes  too  late,  now 
that  there  have  been  men  for  seven  thousand  years,  and 
men,  too,  that  have  thought."     M.  Joubert  recognizes  this 
likewise:  "All  the  things  which  are  easy  to  say  well  have 
/been  perfectly  said;  the  rest  is  our  business  or  our  task: 
(painful  task!"     I  indicate  at  the  outset  the  disadvantage 
and  the  fault;   these  books  of  maxims   and  of  condensed 
moral  observations,  such  as  that  of  La  Bruyere,  and  espe- 
cially such  as  M.  Joubert's,  cannot  be  read  consecutively 
without  fatigue.     It  is  the  mind  distilled  and  fixed  in  all 
its  sugar;  one  cannot  take  much  of  it  at  once. 

eThe  first   chapters    of   the   first  volume   are  not  those 
lich  please  me  most;   they  treat  of  God,  of  creation,  of 
eternity,  and  of  many  other  things.     To  the  peculiar  diffi- 
culty of  the  subjects  is  added  that  which  springs  from  the 
subtlety  of  the  author.     Here  it  is  no  longer  with  Plato 
that   we    have  to  do,  but  with   Augustin   in  large  doses, 
and  without  any  connection  in  the  ideas.     Unquestionably 
it  will  be  well,  one  day,  to  make  of  all  these  metaphysical 
chapters  a  single  one,  much  abridged,  into  which  shall  be 
admitted   only  the  beautiful,  simple,  acceptable  thoughts, 
rejecting    all    those    which    are    equivocal    or    enigmatical. 
On  these  terms  one  may  make   of  M.   Joubert's  volumes, 
not  a  library  book  as  to  day,  but  (that  which  would  be  so 
easy  to  make   by  selection)   one  of  those   beautiful   little 
books  which  he  loved,  and  which  would  justify  in  every 
respect  his  device:  Excel,  and  thou  shalt  live! 


JOUBEKT.  197 

It  is  when  he  returns  to  speak  of  manners  and  of  arts, 
of  antiquity  and  of  the  century,  of  poetry  and  of  criticism, 
of  style  and  of  taste, —  it  is  in  treating  all  these  subjects 
that  he  pleases  and  charms  us,  that  he  appears  to  us  to 
have  made  a  notable  and  novel  addition  to  the  treasure 
of  his  most  excellent  predecessors.  Taste,  for  him,  is  tJte 
literary  conscience  of  the  soul.  Not  more  than  Montaigne 
does  he  love  the  book-like  or  bookish  style  {stiile  lihrier 
OK  lihresque),  that  which  savors  of  ink,  and  which  one 
never  employs  except  when  writing:  "There  should  be,  in 
our  written  language,  voice,  soul,  space,  a  majestic  air, 
words  that  subsist  all  alone,  and  which  carry  their  place 
with  them."  This  life  which  he  demands  of  the  author, 
and  without  which  style  exists  only  on  paper,  he  wishes 
also  in  the  reader:  "The  writers  who  have  influence  are 
only  men  who  express  perfectly  what  others  think,  and 
who  reveal  in  minds  ideas  or  sentiments  that  were  striv- 
ing to  come  forth.  It  is  in  the  depths  of  minds  that 
literatures  exist."  Again,  he  who  relished  the  ancients 
so  well,  the  antiqu.ity  of  Rome,  of  Greece,  and  of  Lewis 
XIV,  does  not  demand  impossibilities  of  us;  he  will  tell 
us  to  appreciate  that  antiquity,  but  not  to  return  to  it. 
In  respect  to  expression,  he  prefers  again  the  sincere  to 
the  beautiful,  and  truth  to  appeai-ance: 

"  Truth  in  style  is  an  indispensable  quality,  and  one  which  suffices 
to  recommend  a  writer.  If,  upon  all  sorts  of  subjects,  we  should 
write  to-day  as  men  wrote  in  the  time  of  Lewis  XIV,  we  should 
have  no  truth  in  style,  for  we  have  no  longer  the  same  dispositions, 
the  same  opinions,  the  same  manners.  A  woman  who  would  write 
like  Madame  de  Sevigne  would  be  ridiculous,  because  she  is  not 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  The  more  the  way  in  which  one  writes  par- 
takes of  the  character  of  the  man,  of  the  manners  of  the  time,  the 
more  must  the  style  differ  from  that  of  the  wi'iters  who  have  been 
models  only  by  having  manifested  preeminently,  in  theirworks,  either 


198  MOIs^DAY-CHATS. 

the  manners  of  their  epoch  or  their  own  character.  Good  taste 
itself,  m  that  case,  permits  one  to  discard  the  best  taste,  for  taste, 
even  good  taste,  changes  with  manners." 

If  this  is  already  the  case,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned, 
with  the  style  of  the  age  of  Lewis  XIV,  how  will  it  be 
with  that  of  remote  antiquity,  and  can  one  hope  to  re- 
turn to  it?  M.  Joubert  contents  himself  with  desiring 
that  we  should  prize  and  tenderly  regret  that  which  will 
never  return: 

"In  the  luxury  of  our  writings  and  of  our  life,  let  us  at  least 
love  and  regret  that  simplicity  which  Ave  have  no  longer,  and  which, 
perhaps,  we  can  no  longer  have.  While  drinking  from  our  gold, 
let  us  regret  the  ancient  cups.  Finally,  that  we  may  not  be  cor- 
rupted in  everything,  let  us  cherish  that  which  is  better  than  our- 
selves, and  let  us,  in  perishing,  save  from  the  shipwreck  our  tastes 
and  our  judgments." 

What  M.  Joubert  demands,  above  all,  of  the  moderns,  is, 
not  to  insist  upon  their  faults,  not  to  follow  their  inclina- 
tions, not  to  throw  themselves  in  that  direction  with  all 
their  strength.  The  visionary  and  fickle  nature,  the  sensu- 
al, the  bombastic,  the  colossal,  especially  displease  him.  We 
have  had  a  high  opinion  for  some  years  of  what  we  call 
force,  power.  Often  when  I  have  chanced  to  hazard  some 
critical  remark  upon  a  talent  of  the  day,  one  has  replied 
to  me:  "What  matters  it!  that  talent  has  power."  But 
what  kind  of  power?  Joubert  is  going  to  reply  for  me: 
"Force  is  not  energy;  some  aiathors  have  more  muscles 
than  talent.  Force!  I  do  not  hate  it  nor  do  I  fear  it; 
but,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  am  entirely  disabused  in  regard 
to  it.  It  is  a  quality  which  is  praiseworthy  only  when 
it  is  concealed  or  clothed.  In  the  vulgar  sense  Lucan 
had  more  of  it  than  Plato,  Brebeuf  more  than  Racine." 
He  will  tell  us  again:  "  Where  there  is  no  delicacy,  there 


JOUBERT.  199 

is  no  literature.  A  writing  in  which  are  found  only  force 
and  a  certain  fire  without  splendor,  announces  only  char- 
acter. One  may  produce  many  such,  if  he  has  nerves,  bile, 
blood,  and  boldness."  M.  Joubert  adores  enthusiasm,  but 
he  distinguishes  it  from  explosiveness,  and  even  from  fer- 
vor (verve),  which  is  but  a  secondary  quality  in  inspira- 
tion, and  which  excites  {remiie)  whilst  the  other  moves 
(emeut):  "  Boileau,  Horace,  Aristophanes,  had  fervor;  La 
Fontaine,  Menander,  and  Virgil,  the  gentlest  and  the  most 
exquisite  enthusiasm  that  ever  was."  Enthusiasm,  in  that 
sense,  might  be  defined  a  kind  of  exalted  peace.  Fine 
works,  according  to  him,  do  not  intoxicate,  but  they  en- 
chant. He  exacts  agreeableness  and  a  certain  amenity  even 
in  the  treatment  of  austere  subjects;  he  requires  a  certain 
charm  everywhere,  even  in  profundity:  "It  is  necessary 
to  carry  a  certain  charm  even  into  the  deepest  investi- 
gations, and  to  introduce  into  those  gloomy  caverns,  into 
which  one  has  penetrated  but  for  a  short  time,  the  pure 
and  antique  light  of  the  ages  that  were  less  instructed 
but  more  luminous  than  ours."  Those  words  luminous 
and  light  reappear  frequently  in  his  writings,  and  betray 
that  winged  nature  that  loved  the  heavens  and  high  places. 
The  brilliant,  which  he  distinguishes  from  the  luminous, 
does  not  seduce  him:  "It  is  very  well  that  thoughts 
should  shine,  but  it  is  not  necessary  that  they  should 
sparkle."  What  he  most  of  all  desires  in  them  is  splendor, 
which  he  defines  a  quiet,  inner  brilliancy,  uniformly  dif- 
fused, and  which  penetrates  the  whole  body  of  a  work. 

There  is  much  to  be  drawn  from  the  chapters  of  M. 
Joubert  upon  criticism  and  upon  style, —  from  his  judg- 
ments upon  different  writers;  in  these  he  appears  original, 
bold,  and  almost  always  correct.     He  astonishes  at  the  first 


200  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

impression;  he  generally  satisfies  when  one  reflects  upon 
his  sayings.     He  has  the  art  of  freshening  stale  precepts, 
of   renewing  them   for  the  use  of   an  epoch  which  holds 
to  tradition  only  by  halves.      On    this    side    he    is    essen- 
tially a  modern  critic.     In  spite  of  all  his  old  creeds  and 
his  regrets  for  the  past,  we  distinguish  immediately  in  him 
the  stamp  of   the  time  in  which  he  lives.      He  does   not 
hate  a  certain  appearance  of  elaborate  finish,  and  sees  in 
it  rather  a  misfortune  than  a  fault.      He  goes  so  far  as 
to  believe  that  "  it  is  permissible  to  avoid  simplicity,  when 
to    do    so    is    absolutely  necessary    for    agreeableness,  and 
when  simplicity  alone    would   not   be    beautiful."      If   he 
desires  naturalness,  it  is  not  the  vulgar  naturalness,  but 
an  exquisite  naturalness.     Does  he  always  attain  it?     He 
feels  that  he  is  not  exempt  from  some  subtlety,   and  he 
excuses  him^self  for  it:  "Often  one  cannot  avoid  passing 
through  the  subtle  to  rise   and  reach  the  sublime,  as  to 
mount  to  the  heavens  one  must  pass  through  the  clouds." 
He  rises   often   to    the    highest  ideas,  but  it  is  never  by 
following  the  high-roads;    he  has  paths  that  are  unseen. 
Finally,  to  sum  all  up,  there  is  singularity  and  an  indi- 
vidual    humor    in    his    judgments.      He    is    an    indulgent 
humorist,  who  sometimes  recalls  Sterne,  or  rather  Charles 
\  Lamb.      He  has  a  manner  that  leads  him  to  say  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing,  like  another  man.      This  is  noticeable 
in  the  letters  he  writes,  and  does  not  fail  to  be  wearisome 
at  last.      It   appears   by  all  marks  that  Joubert  is  not  a 
classic    but   a    modern,    and    it    is    by    this    title    that    he 
appears  to  me  fitted,  better  perhaps  than  any  other  per- 
son, to  give  emphasis  to  good   counsel,  and   to  pierce  us 
with  his  shafts. 

I  have  sometimes  asked  myself  what  would  be  a  sensi- 


JOUBERT.  201 

ble,  just,  natural  French  rhetoric,  and  it  happened  to  me, 
once  in  my  life,  to  have  to  ti-eat  the  subject  in  a  course  of 
lectures  to  some  young  people.  What  did  I  have  to  do 
to  avoid  fallincr  into  routine,  and  also  risking  too  much 
by  novelty?  I  began  c^uite  simply  with  Pascal,  with  the 
"  thoughts ''  on  literature,  in  which  the  grreat  writer  has 
set  down  some  of  the  observations  which  he  made  upon 
his  own  art;  I  read  them  aloud,  at  the  same  time  com- 
menting on  them.  Then  I  took  La  Bruyere,  at  the  chap- 
ter on  the  Works  of  the  Mi/id.  I  next  went  to  Fenelon, 
for  his  Dialogues  on  Eloquence,  and  for  his  Letter  to  the 
French  Academy.  I  read  cursorily,  choosing  the  points, 
and  commenting  on  them  always  by  means  of  examples, 
and  without  confining  myself  to  the  living.  Vauvenargues, 
on  account  of  his  Thoughts  and  his  Literary  Characters, 
came  next.  I  then  borrowed  of  Voltaire  his  articles  on 
Taste  and  Style  in  the  Philosophical  Dictionary,  his  Tem- 
ple of  Taste,  and  some  passages  of  his  letters  in  which 
he  judges  Boileau,  Racine,  and  Corneille.  In  order  to 
extend  the  horizon  a  little  at  this  moment,  I  joined  some 
considerations  upon  the  genius  of  Goethe  and  upon  the 
English  taste  of  Coleridge.  Marmontel,  in  his  Elements 
of  Literature,  furnished  me  next  with  the  article  on  Style, 
an  excellent  piece.  I  was  careful  not  to  forget  Buffon 
upon  the  same  subject,  who  crowned  the  whole.  Then, 
the  classic  circle  completed,  I  gave  M.  Joubert  to  my 
young  people  for  a  kind  of  dessert,  for  recreation,  and 
for  a  little  final  debauch,  a  debauch  worthy  of  Pythago- 
ras! And  so  my  French  rhetoric  found  itself  complete. 
On  the  whole,  if  we  must  characterize  M.  Joubert,  he 
had  all  the  delicacy  which  one  can  desire  in  a  mind,  but 
he  had  not  all  the  power.      He  was  one  of  those  medita- 


202  MONDAY-CHATS. 

tive  and  fastidious  minds  that  "  are  incessantly  distracted 
from  their  work  by  immense  perspectives  and  distant 
prospects  of  celestial  beauty  of  which  they  would  like  to 
show  everywhere  some  image  or  some  ray."  He  had  m 
too  high  a  degree  the  sentiment  of  the  perfect  and  of  the 
complete:  "  To  perfect  one's  thought,"  cried  he,  "  that  takes 
time,  that  is  rare,  that  imparts  an  extreme  pleasure;  for 
perfected  thoughts  enter  minds  easily;  they  need  not  even 
be  beautiful  to  please,  it  sufiBces  that  they  be  finished. 
The  condition  of  the  soul  which  has  had  them  communi- 
cates itself  to  other  souls,  and  conveys  to  them  its  own  re- 
pose." He  had  sometimes  that  sweet  enjoyment  of  finish- 
ing his  thoughts,  but  never  that  of  joining  them  together 
and  forming  a  monument. 

A  philosopher  of  that  time,  himself  an  exceedingly  in- 
tellectual man,  was  accustomed  to  distinguish  three  kinds 
of  minds  thus: 

"  The  first,  at  once  powerful  and  delicate,  which  excel  as  they 
understand  it,  execute  what  they  conceive,  and  attain  both  the 
great  and  the  true  beautiful;  a  rare  elect  among  mortals! 

"  The  second,  whose  chief  quality  is  delicacy,  and  who  feel  their 
idea  to  be  superior  to  their  execution,  their  intelligence  greater  still 
than  their  talent,  even  when  this  last  is  very  real.  They  are  easdy 
disgusted,  disdain  the  easily  obtained  suffrages,  love  better  to 
judge,  to  taste,  and  to  abstain,  than  to  remain  below  their  idea 
and  themselves.  When  they  write,  it  is  in  fragments,  it  is  for 
themselves  alone,  it  is  at  long  intervals,  and  in  rare  moments;  they 
have  for  their  apportionment  only  an  internal  fecundity,  which  has 

few  confidants. 

"Finally,  the  last  kind  of  minds  comprises  those  who,  more 
powerful  and  less  delicate  or  less  exacting,  go  on  producing  and 
diffusing  themselves,  without  being  too  much  disgusted  with  them- 
selves and  with  their  works;  and  it  is  very  happy  that  it  is  so  with 
them,  for,  otherwise,  the  world  would  run  the  risk  of  being  deprived 
of  many  thoughts  which  amuse  and  which  charm  it,  which  console 
it  for  the  want  of  those  greater  ones  that  will  not  come." 


JOUBERT.  203 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  that  M.  Joubert,  like  M.  Royer- 
Collard,  belongs  to  the  second  class  of  these  minds,  to  those 
who  look  upward  and  produce  chiefly  within? 

Naturally  the  conversation  of  these  men  is  superior  to 
what  they  leaA-e  in  writing,  and  which  exhibits  but  the 
smallest  part  of  themselves.  I  have  been  permitted  to 
gather  some  flashes  of  the  conversation  of  M.  Joubert 
from  the  papers  of  Chenedolle,  who  took  notes  of 
them  on  leaving  him.  Would  one  know  how  Joubert 
talked  about  M.  de  Chateaubriand  and  about  Bernardin 
de  Saint-Pierre,  while  comparing  the  excellences  of  the 
two?  The  last  week  has  been  entirely  consecrated  to  M. 
de  Chateaubriand,  and  there  has  been  a  great  festival  of 
eloquence  on  his  account.*  Nevertheless,  if  I  do  not  de- 
ceive myself,  and  if  I  see  clearly  in  respect  to  certain 
symptoms,  the  moment  is  approaching  when  his  high  re- 
nown will  have  to  undergo  one  of  those  general  insur- 
rections which  long-continued  monarchies,  universal  mon- 
archies, at  the  final  reckoning,  never  escape.  What  it 
will  be  necessary  to  do  then,  to  maintain  the  just  rights 
of  his  renown,  will  be,  in  wise  criticism  as  in  wise  war, 
to  abandon  without  difficulty  all  the  parts  of  that  vast 
domain  which  are  not  truly  beautiful,  nor  susceptible  of 
being  seriously  defended,  and  to  entrench  one's  self  in 
the  portions  which  are  entirely  superior  and  durable. 
These  portions  which  I  call  truly  beautiful  and  inexpug- 
nable, will  be  Rene,  some  scenes  of  Atala,  the  story  of 
Eudore,  the  picture  of  the  Roman  Campagna,  some  fine 
pictures  in  the  Itineraire;  to  these  will  be  joined  some 
political  and  especially  some  polemical  pages.     Well,  here 

*  On  the  sixth  of  December  (1849)  there  was  a  great  session  at  the  French 
Academy  for  the  reception  of  M.  Noailles,  who  came  to  replace  and  to  cele- 
brate M.  de  Chateaubriand:  M.  Patin  had  replied  to  him. 


204  MONDAY-CHATS. 

is  what  M.  Joiibert  said,  one  day  in  February,  1807,  while 
walking  with  Chenedolle  before  the  column  of  the  Louvre, 
as  Bene,  Paul  et  Virginie  and  Atala  came  to  his  recollec- 
tion : 

"The  work  of  M.  de  Saint  -Pierre  resembles  a  statue  of  white 
marble,  that  of  M.  de  Chateaubriand  a  bronze  statue  cast  by  Lysip- 
pus.  The  style  of  the  former  is  more  polished,  that  of  the  latter 
more  colored.  Chateaubriand  takes  for  his  theme  heaven,  earth, 
and  hell:  Saint- Pierre  chooses  a  well-Ughted  earth.  The  style  of 
the  one  has  the  fresher  and  younger  look;  that  of  the  other  has  the 
more  ancient  look:  it  has  the  appearance  of  belonging  to  all  times. 
Saint-Pierre  seems  to  choose  the  purest  and  richest  terms  in  the 
language:  Chateaubriand  borrows  from  all  sources,  even  vicious 
literatures,  but  he  works  a  real  transmutation,  and  his  style  re- 
sembles that  famous  metal  which,  at  the  burning  of  Corinth,  was 
formed  by  the  mingling  of  all  the  other  metals.  The  one  has  a 
varied  unity,  the  other  a  rich  variety. 

"There  is  a  reproach  to  be  made  against  both.  M.  de  Saint- 
Pien-e  has  given  to  matter  a  beauty  which  does  not  belong  to  it; 
Chateaubriand  has  given  to  the  passions  an  innocence  which  they  do 
not  have,  or  which  they  have  but  once.  In  Atala  the  passions  are 
covered  with  long  white  veils. 

"  Saint- Pierre  has  but  one  line  of  beauty  which  turns  and  re- 
turns indefinitely  upon  itself,  and  is  lost  in  the  most  graceful 
windings:  Chateaubriand  employs  all  the  lines,  even  the  defective 
ones,  the  breaks  of  which  he  makes  contribute  to  the  truth  of  the 
details  and  to  the  pomp  of  the  whole. 

"Chateaubriand  produces  with  fire;  he  melts  all  his  thoughts  in 
the  fire  of  heaven. 

"  Bernardin  writes  by  moonlight,  Chateaubriand  by  the  light  of 

the  sun." 

I   will   add  nothing   after  such  thoughts   so  worthy  of 
memory,  except  that,  when  a  new  edition  of  M.  Joubert 
is  prepared,  they  should  be  added  to  it. 
December  10,  1849. 


GUIZOT. 


~\  /f~  GUIZOT  has  twice  addressed  the  public,  as  a 
-'^'-'-»  writer,  since  February,  1848:  the  first  time  in 
January,  1849,  by  his  pamphlet,  On  Democracy  in  France; 
the  second  time,  in  these  latter  days,  by  the  Discourse  * 
which  we  have  now  to  notice,  and  which  has  a  double  end 
in  view.  This  Discourse,  indeed,  is  designed  to  serve  as 
an  introduction  to  a  new  edition  of  the  History  of  the 
English  Revolution,  which  appears  at  this  time;  but  it  has 
also  an  evident  reference  to  the  present  political  situa- 
tion, and  almost  a  direct  discussion  of  it.  In  discussing 
strictly  this  question:  "Why  did  the  English  Revolution 
succeed?''  the  eminent  historian  evidently  provokes  every 
thinking  reader  to  ask  himself  this  other  question:  '"Why 
has  the  French  Revolution  miscarried  thus  far?  Why, 
at  least,  did  it  not  succeed  in  the  same  sense  as  the 
English,  and  why  is  its  final  adjustment  yet  to  be 
made?" 

If  M.  Guizot's  discourse  were  purely  political,  I  might 
let  it  pass  without  believing  it  to  belong  to  my  province, 
thus  remaining  faithful  to  my  office  and  to  my  taste, 
which  are  agreed  to  adhere  to  literature;  but  this  Dis- 
course is  political  only  in  its  meaning  and  object;  it  is 
purelj^  historical  in  form  and  appearance,  and  as  such  I 
cannot  neglect  it  without  seeming  to  be  unequal  to  an 
important  occasion,  and  almost  to  an  opportunity.     It  is 

*Discour8  6ur  I'Histoire  de  la  Revolution  d'Angleterre. 


206  MONDAY-CHATS. 

impossible  for  the  newspaper  critic,  who  commonly  has  to 
hunt  for  or  to  create  subjects  of  interest,  to  evade  so  im- 
portant ones  when  they  directly  confront  him.     If  I  should 
pass  by  this  Discourse  in  silence,  to  speak  of  a  book  of 
poetry,  or  of  an  old  or  new  novel,  the  public  would  have 
a  right  to  think  that  literary  criticism   acknowledges  its 
incompetency,  that  it  knows  its  business  only  to  a  certain 
trifling  extent;   that  there   are  subjects  from  which  it  is 
interdicted  as  too  difficult  or  too  thorny;  and  I  have  never 
thus  regarded  that  criticism,  which  is  light,  no  doubt,  and, 
so  far  as  possible,  agreeable,  but  firm  and  serious  when  it 
should  be,  and  as  far  as  it  should  be. 
"^     However  (and  I  will   frankly  confess  it  at  the  outset, 
in  order  that  I  may  be  so  much  the  more  at  my  ease  after- 
ward), I  have  felt  a  momentary  embarrassment  on  finding 
myself  prepared  to  express  a  direct  opinion  upon  a  work 
whose  import  is  so  real,  and  consequently  upon  an  emi- 
nent man  of  whom  there  is  so  much  to  be  said,  and  whom 
one  cannot  consider  by  halves.     The  writings  of  M.  Guizot 
form  a  complete  chain;  you  cannot  touch  a  link,  without 
moving,  without  shaking  all  the  rest.     And  then  we  have 
to  do,  in   this  case,  with   a  living  writer!     M.  Guizot  is 
not  one  of  those  men  who  are  divided,  and  of  whom  one 
can  say:  I  will  speak  of  the  historian,  of  the  man  of  let- 
ters, without  touching   the    politician.     No,  to  his  honor 
we  must  admit,  and  it  is  one  of  the  very  causes  of  his 
personal  importance,  he  is  one;  literature  and  history  it- 
self have  been  with  him  only  a  means  of  action,  of  teaching, 
of  influence.     He  adopted  early  certain  ideas  and  systems, 
and  in  all  ways,  by  the  pen,  by  speech,  in  the  professor's 
chair,  on  the  platform,  in  power  and  out  of  power,  he  has 
left  nothincT  undone  to  naturalize  those  ideas  and  to  make 


GUIZOT.  207 

them  prevail  in  our  country.  And  at  this  moment  what 
is  he  doing  still  ?  Fallen  yesterday,  he  lifts  up  his  banner 
again  to-day;  only  he  raises  it  now  in  the  historic  form. 
Once  more  he  ranges  his  ideas  and  his  reasons  in  order 
of  battle,  as  if  he  had  never  been  attacked.  To  make  an 
end  of  these  precautions,  which  were  yet  indispensable,  I 
shall  not  pretend  to  forget  that  Guizot  has  counted  for 
much  in  our  destinies,  that,  in  determining  them,  he  has 
been  a  heavy  weight.  The  accident  of  February,  that  im- 
mense catastrophe  in  which  we  all  shared  and  by  which 
we  were  shipwrecked,  will  be  present  to  my  memory.  I 
should  tell  a  falsehood  if  I  should  say  that  this  last  lesson 
of  history  is  not  joined,  in  my  opinion,  to  all  the  others 
which  we  owe  to  M.  Guizot,  to  complete  them,  to  correct 
them,  and  to  confirm  me  in  certain  judgments,  which  I 
shall  try  to  express  here  as  fitly  as  possible. 

M.  Guizot  is  one  of  the  ^men  of  our  day  who,  early 
and  on  every  occasion,  have  labored  the  most  and  written 
the  most,  and  upon  all  sorts  of  subjects;  one  of  those 
whose  information  is  the  most  various  and  vast,  who  are 
best  acquainted  with  the  ancient  and  the  modern  lan- 
guages and  with  belles-lettres ;  and  yet  he  is  not  a  littera- 
teur properly  so  called,  in  the  exact  sense  which  that 
word  conveys  to  me.  Napoleon  wrote  to  his  brother 
Joseph,  then  king  of  Naples,  who  was  very  fond  of 
literary  people  and  of  savants:  "You  live  too  much  with 
men  of  letters  and  savants.  They  are  coquets  with 
whom  one  must  have  a  commerce  of  gallantry,  but  he 
must  never  dream  of  making  a  wife  or  a  minister  of 
any  of  them."  This  is  true  of  many  literary  persons,  of 
some  even  of  those  whom,  in  our  day,  we  have  seen 
made  ministers.      But  it  is  not  true  either  of  M.  Guizot 


208  MONDAY-CHATS. 

or  M.  Thiers.      Both  are  politicians  who  began  by  being 
writers;   they  made   their  start  iu  literature,  they  return 
to  it  when  necessary,  they  honor  it  by  their  works;   but 
they  do   not   belong,   strictly   speaking,  to   the    family  of 
litterateurs,  that  race  which  has  its  special  qualities  and 
faults.     M.  Guizot,  perhaps,  is  farther  from  belonging  to 
it  than  anybody  else.     There    is    no    mind  to  which    one 
can  less  properly  apply  that  word  coquet,  which  Napoleon 
used;  it  is  a  mind  which,   in  everything,  cares   the   least 
for  form,  for  fashion.     Literature  has  never  been  his  end, 
but  his  means.     He  has  no  literary  ambition,  so  far  as  it 
makes   one  inquisitive,  easy  to  distract,  excitable,  easy  to 
irritate,    easy  to    amuse    and    console.     He    does    nothing 
trivial,  nothing    useless.     He    goes    in    all  matters  to  the 
fact,  to  the  end,  to  the  main  point.     If  he  writes,  he  does 
not    trouble    himself   about    a    chimerical    perfection;    he 
seeks  to  say  well  what  he  means,  and  as  he  means  it;  he 
does  not  hunt  for  a  better  form  of  expression,  thus  losing 
time   and   wasting  his    energies.     He  is  not  smitten  with 
an  ideal  which  he  would  realize.     An  executive  mind,  he 
gathers   his   forces    and    his    ideas    with    vigor    and    with 
ardor,  and  sets   himself    resolutely  to  work,    caring  little 
for  the   form,   and   attaining    it    often  by  the    nerve    and 
decisiveness   of  his   thought.     When   a   work  is  done,  he 
rarely  returns  to  it;    he  does  not  resume    it   in   order  to 
revise    it    at   leisure,  to   retouch    it    and   polish  it  up,  to 
improve    the    inexact  or    weak  parts,  and    to    amend    the 
imperfections  of  the  first  draught;  he  passes  on  to  another. 
He  thinks  of  the  present  and  of  the  morrow. 

Such  he  was  at  the  beginning,  before  he  was  in  office, 
such  in  the  intervals  of  his  political  life.  When  the 
Restoration    took    place,  he  felt    that,   under    a    peaceful 


GDIZOT.  209 

government,  which  admitted  the  right  of  discussion  and 
of  speech,  he  was  one  of  those  whom  their  natural  voca- 
tion and  their  merit  call  to  take  part  in  the  affairs  and 
in  the  deliberations  of  the  country.  All  the  while  that 
he  wrote  a  great  deal,  as  much  from  taste  as  from  an 
honorable  necessity,  he  felt  tliat  he  belonged  to  the  class 
who  become  ministers  and  who  govei-n.  From  the  very 
first  day  he  set  his  eye  upon  a  lofty  position,  and  he 
prepared  himself  for  it  with  energ}^ 

While  waiting,  however,  for  the  hour  to  come  when 
he  should  be  an  orator  and  a  minister,  he  taught  at  the 
Sorbonne;  he  was  the  greatest  professor  of  history  that 
we  have  had.  He  founded  a  school;  that  school  reigns; 
it  reigns  in  part  over  the  very  persons  who  think  they 
are  combating  it.  In  his  Essays  on  the  History  of  France, 
in  his  Historij  of  Civilization  in  Europe  and  in  France, 
Guizot  has  developed  his  principles  and  his  points  of  view. 
More  precise  than  the  Germans,  generalizing  more  than 
the  English,  he  became  European  by  his  writings  before 
becoming  such  by  the  part  he  played  as  a  public  man. 
From  the  first  day  that  he  set  foot  in  history,  M.  Gui- 
zot brought  to  it  his  instinct  and  his  habits  of  mind; 
he  professed  to  regulate  it,  to  organize  it.  His  first  de- 
sign, in  crossing  that  vast  ocean  of  past  things,  was  to 
discover  and  trace  a  determinate  direction,  without  being 
too  straitened,  and  without  diminishing  the  diversity  of 
the  whole.  To  act  impartially,  to  admit  all  the  con- 
stituent elements  of  history,  royal,  aristocratic,  communal, 
or  ecclesiastic,  to  exclude  no  one  of  them  henceforth,  on 
condition  of  classifying  them  all  and  making  them  march 
under  one  law, —  that  was  his  ambition.  It  was  vast,  and 
if  we    may  judge  by  the    effect   produced,  M.  Guizot  has 

9* 


210  MONDAY-CHATS. 

succeeded.  He  has  been  praised  as  he  deserved.  He  has 
not  been  controverted  as  he  ought.  Daunou  alone  made 
some  timid  but  judicious  observations.  No  firm  spirit, 
in  the  name  of  the  school  of  Hume  and  Voltaire,  in  the 
name  of  that  of  experience  and  good  sense,  in  the  name 
of  human  humility,  has  come  forth  to  declare  the  objec- 
tions which  would  not  have  detracted  from  his  solid 
merits  as  a  thinker  and  classifier,  which  would  have  left 
untouched  many  of  the  positive  portions  of  his  work,  but 
which  would  have  given  birth  to  some  doubts  concerning 
the  foundation  of  his  exorbitant  pretensions. 

I   am    one  of  those   who    doubt,  indeed,  whether    it   is 
granted  to  man  to  comprehend  with  this  amplitude,  with 
this  certainty,  the  causes  and  the  sources  of  his  own  his- 
tory in  the  past;  he  has  so  much  to  do  to  comprehend  it 
even  imperfectly  at  the  present  time,  and  to  avoid  being 
deceived    about   it   at  every  hour!      Saint   Augustine  has 
made    this    very   ingenious    comparison:    Suppose    that    a 
syllable    in   the    poem   of  the   Iliad  were  endowed,  for  a 
moment,  with  a  soul   and  with  life:    could   that  syllable, 
placed  as  it  is,  comprehend  the  meaning  and  general  plan 
of  the  poem?      At   most,  it    could    only  comprehend   the 
meaning   of  the   verse   in  which    it  was   placed,   and   the 
meaning    of   the    three    or    four    preceding  verses.      That 
syllable,  animated  for  a  moment,  is  man;    and   you  have 
just  told    him   that    he    has   only  to  will   it,  in  order  to 
grasp  the  totality  of  the   things  which  have  occurred  on 
this  earth,  the  majority  of  which   have  vanished  without 
leaving  monuments  or  traces  of  themselves,  and  the  rest 
of  which  have  left  only  monuments  that  are  so  incomplete 
and  so  truncated! 

This  objection  does  not  address  itself  to  M.  Guizot  only, 


GUIZOT.  211 

but  to  the  whole  doctrinaire  school  of  which  he  has  been 
the  organ  and  the  most  active  and  influential  worker. 
It  addresses  itself  to  many  other  schools,  also,  which  believe 
themselves  distinct  from  that,  and  which  have  split  upon 
the  same  rock.  The  danger  is  very  real  to  any  person, 
especially,  who  would  pass  from  history  to  politics.  His- 
tory thus  seen  from  a  distance, —  mark  the  fact!  —  under- 
goes a  singular  metamorphosis,  and  produces  an  illusion, 
the  worst  of  all  because  one  believes  it  a  reality.  Under 
this  more  or  less  philosophical  arrangement  which  one 
gives  to  history,  the  deviations,  the  follies,  the  personal 
ambitions,  the  thousand  strange  accidents  which  compose 
it,  and  of  which  those  who  have  observed  their  own  times 
know  that  it  is  composed, —  all  this  disappears,  is  neglected, 
and  is  judged  but  little  worthy  of  being  taken  into  the 
account.  The  whole  acquires,  after  the  fact,  a  rational 
appearance  which  is  deceptive.  The  fact  becomes  a 
view  of  the  mind.  One  judges  henceforth  only  from 
above;  he  puts  himself,  insensibly,  in  place  of  Providence. 
He  finds  in  all  the  individual  accidents  inevitable  chains, 
necessities,  as  they  are  called.  But  if  he  afterward  pro- 
ceeds from  study  to  practice,  he  is  tempted  to  forget,  in 
dealing  with  present  things,  that  one  has  incessantly  to 
deal  with  human  passions  and  follies,  with  human  incon- 
sistency. He  desires  at  the  present  time,  and  even  at  the 
very  hour,  certain  net  results,  as  he  fancies  that  they 
existed  in  the  past.  He  deals  authoritatively  with  experi- 
ence. In  this  age  of  sophists  in  which  we  live,  it  is  in 
the  name  of  the  philosophy  of  history  that  each  school 
(for  each  school  has  its  own)  comes  imperiously  to  demand 
the  innovation,  which,  in  its  eyes,  is  no  more  than  a  rigor- 
ous and  legitimate  conclusion.      It  is  well  to  see  how,  in 


2X2  MONDAY-CHATS. 

the  name  of  that  pretended  historic  experience  which  is 
nothing  more  than  logic,  each  one  presumptuously  arro- 
gates the  present  and  claims  the  future  as  his  own. 

M.  Guizot  knows  better  than  we  these  inconveniences, 
and  he  would  combat  them,  if  there  were  occasion,  in  his 
own  masterly  way.      But  he  has  not  been  exempt  from 
these  errors  himself,  and,  by  his  ascendency,  he  has  author- 
ized these  general  ways  of  viewing  events.     His  philosophy 
of  history  is  by  far  too  logical  to  be  true,  and  none  the 
less  so  for  being  more  specious  than  others,  and  for  resting 
upon  facts.      I  see  in  it  only  an  artificial  method,   con- 
venient   for   keeping    an    account   of  the    past.      All    the 
forces  which  have  not  produced  their  effect,   and  which, 
nevertheless,  might  have  produced  it,  are  suppressed.     All 
those  which  can  be  recovered  and  gathered  together,  are 
arranc^ed   in    the  best  order,   and   under   complex   names. 
All  the  lost  causes,  which  have  not  had  their  representa- 
tive, or  which  have  been  finally  vanquished,  are  declared 
to  have  been  born  feeble,  and  from  the  outset  doomed  to 
defeat.     And  often  what  a  trifle  has  prevented  them  from 
being  triumphant!      The  very  old  facts  are  the  ones  which 
lend  themselves   most  readily  to  this  kind  of  systematic 
history.      They  are  no  longer  living,  they  reach  us  scat- 
tered, piecemeal;  they  permit  themselves  to  be  commanded 
and   trained    at   will,  when   a   capable   hand    attempts   to 
arrange  and  reconstruct  them.     But  modern  history  offers 
more  resistance.     M.  Guizot  knows  it  well.     In  his  Hktory 
of  Civilization  in  Europe,  it  is  only  when  he  comes  to  the 
sixteenth   century,  that   he    entertains   any  doubts   about 
the  advantages  of  hasty  generalizations;    it  is  only  then, 
also,  that  these   objections   start  up  of   themselves  on   all 
sides,  and  we  reenter  the  stormy  and  variable  atmosphere 


GUIZOT.  213 

of  modern  and  present  times.  The  generalization  which 
seems  profound  in  respect  to  far  distant  ages,  would  seem 
shallow  and  rash  in  respect  to  nearer  ones.  Let  us  well 
understand  each  other:  I  admire  that  far-reaching  and 
increnious  force  of  mind  which  recreates,  which  restores 
all  of  the  past  that  can  be  restored,  which  gives  it  a 
meaning,  if  not  the  true,  at  least  a  plausible  and  proba- 
ble meaning,  which  controls  the  disorder  in  history,  and 
which  furnishes  useful  bases  and  directions  for  its  study. 
But  what  I  would  point  out  as  a  danger,  is  the  habit  of 
wishing  to  draw  conclusions  from  a  past  thus  recreated 
and  reconstructed, —  from  a  past  artificially  simplified, — 
concerning  the  moving,  various,  and  changing  present. 
For  myself,  when  I  have  read  some  of  these  lofty  lessons, 
so  clear  and  so  trenchant,  upon  the  History  of  Civilization, 
I  speedily  reopen  a  volume  of  the  Memoirs  of  Retz,  that 
I  may  come  back  to  the  real  world  of  inti'igue  and  of 
human  masquerades. 

We  touch  here  upon  one  of  the  essential  reasons  why 
the  historian,  even  the  great  historian,  is  not  necessa- 
rily a  great  politician  or  a  statesman.  These  are  talents 
which  approximate,  which  resemble  each  other,  and  which 
one  is  tempted  to  confound,  but  which  in  some  important 
respects  differ.  The  historian  is  employed  to  desciibe  the 
malady  when  the  sick  man  is  dead.  The  statesman  is 
employed  to  treat  the  sick  man  while  he  is  still  living. 
The  historian  deals  with  "  facts  accomplished  "  and  simple 
results  (at  least,  relatively  simple):  the  politician  con- 
fronts a  certain  number  of  results,  of  which  more  than 
one  may  chance  at  any  moment  to  vanish. 

Some  recent  facts  have  demonstrated  this  last  truth. 
I  appeal  here  to  everybody's  good  sense,  and  say:  In  poll- 


214  MONDAY-CHATS. 

tics    there    are   several   different   ways   in  which   a  thing 
that  is  begun   may  turn  out.     When  the  thing  is  done, 
we    see    only   the    event.     That   which    passed    under   our 
eyes  in  February  is  a  notable  example.     The  thing  might 
have   turned    out   in    many   different   ways.     Fifty   years 
hence  one  will  maintain  perhaps  (according  to  the  method 
of  the  doctrinaires)    that  it  was  a  necessity.     In  a  word, 
there  are   many  possible   defiles   in   the    march   of   human 
affairs.     In  vain  does  the   absolute   philosopher  tell  you: 
"In  history  I  love  the  main  roads;  I  believe  only  in  the 
main  roads."     Good  sense  replies:  "These  main  roads  are 
most  frequently  made  by  the  historian.     The  main  road  is 
made  by  enlarging  the  defile  which  one  has  passed,  and 
at  the  expense  of  the  other  defiles  which  one  might  have 

passed." 

A  positive  mind,  that  knows  how  to  combine  the  prac- 
tical result  and  the  abstract  view,  M.  Guizot  did  not  care 
to  embarrass  himself  very  long  with  these   historic  form- 
ulas in  which  a  German  professor  would  have  dwelt  for- 
ever.    He   stated  them,  but  he   did  not  shut  himself  up 
in   them.     In  1826,  he  knew  how  to   choose,  as  material 
for  history,  a  subject  which  was  most  happy  in  its  anal- 
ogies to  our  own  political    situation,  and  which,  besides, 
was  in  all  respects  most  fitting  to  his  abilities:  he  under- 
took the  History  of  the  English  Revolution.     Two  volumes 
only    of  that   History   have    appeared    thus    far,    and    the 
recital  goes  only  to  the  death   of  Charles  I.     M.  Guizot, 
after  a  long  interruption,  resumes  his  task  to-day,  and  he 
signalizes   his    return  to  it   by  the   remarkable  Discourse 
which    one    may  read.     Amid   the    interruptions    and   the 
chasms,  there  is  this   in   common  between   the  beginning 
in  1826  and  the   resumption   in   1850,   that  he  published 


GUIZOT.  215 

the  History  tlien  as  a  lesson  given  to  that  time,  and 
it  is  also  by  the  title  of  a  lesson  given  to  our  own 
time,  that  he  returns  to  his  task  to-day.  In  1826  the 
lesson  was  addressed  to  royalty  which  wanted  to  be  abso- 
lute, and  to  the  tdfras.  In  1850  it  is  addressed  to  the 
democracy.  But  why,  then,  a  lesson  always?  Does  not 
history,  thus  presented,  run  a  risk  of  going  out  of  the 
way  and  of  being  made  a  little  to  order"? 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  two  published  volumes  of  this 
History  of  the  English  Revolution  have  a  real  interest, 
and  offer  a  grave  and  manly  recital,  a  series  of  facts  that 
form  a  firm  and  dense  tissue,  with  great  and  lofty  parts. 
The  scenes  of  the  death  of  Strafford  and  the  trial  of 
Charles  I  are  treated  simply,  and  with  great  dramatic 
effect.  That  which  was  more  difficult,  and  which  M. 
Guizot  excels  in  setting  forth,  is  the  debates,  the  discus- 
sions, the  disagreements  of  parties,  the  parliamentary  side 
of  the  history,  the  state  of  the  ideas  in  the  different 
groups  at  a  given  moment;  he  understands  in  a  masterly 
way  this  marshalling  of  ideas.  Sprung  from  a  Calvinist 
family,  he  has  kept  up  a  certain  austere  tone  of  theirs, 
a  talent  for  comprehending  and  reproducing  those  te- 
nacious natures,  those  energetic  and  gloomy  inspirations. 
The  habits  of  race  and  early  education  staxnp  themselves 
on  the  talents  and  reappear  in  the  speech,  even  when  they 
have  disappeared  from  the  habits  of  our  life;  we  keep 
their  fibre  and  their  tone.  The  men,  the  characters,  are 
^expressed,  as  we  meet  them,  by  vigorous  strokes;  but  the 
whole  lacks  a  certain  splendor,  or  rather  a  certain  contin- 
\uous  animation.  The  personages  do  not  live  with  a  life 
of  their  own;  the  historian  takes  them,  seizes  them,  and 
gives  their  profile  in  brass.     His  plan  implies  a  very  bold 


216  MONDA.Y-CHATS. 

and   confident   execution.     He   knows    what   he    wants   to 
say,  and  where  he  wants  to  go.     The  ridiculous  and  iron- 
fical  side  of  things,  the  sceptical  side,  of  which  other  his- 
torians make  too  much,  has  with  him  no  place.     He  shows 
plainly  a  kind  of  moral  gravity  in  men   amid  their  ma- 
noeuvrings  and  intrigues;  but  he  does  not  set  the  contra- 
diction in  a  sufficiently  strong  light.     He  gives  us,  on  the 
way,  many  stale  maxims,  but  none  of  those  moral  reflec- 
^'  tions  which  instruct  and  delight,  which  recreate  humanity 
and  restore  it  to  itself,  like  those  which  escape  incessantly 
from  Voltaire.     His  style,  which  is  emphatically  his  own, 
is  sad  and  never  laughs.     I  have  given  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  reading  at  the  same  time  the  corresponding  pages 
of  Hume:    one  would  not  believe  that  the   same  history 
was   treated,   so    different   is   the    tone!     What   I    remark 
especially  is,  that  it  is  possible  for  me,  in  reading  Hume, 
to  check  him,  to  contradict  him  sometimes:    he  furnishes 
me  with  the   means   of  doing  so   by  the   very  details  he 
gives,  by  the  balance  he  strikes.     In   reading  Guizot  this 
is  almost  impossible,  so  closely  woven  is  the  tissue,  so  in- 
terlinked is  the  whole  narrative.     He  holds  you  fast  and 
leads  you  to  the  end,  firmly  combining   the   fact,  the   re- 
flection, and  the  end  in  view. 

How  far,  even  after  these  two  volumes,  and  regarding 
his  writings  as  a  whole,  is  M.  Guizot  a  historical  painter? 
How  far  and  to  what  extent  is  he  properly  a  narrator? 
These  would  be  very  interesting  questions  to  discuss  as 
literary  ones,  without  favor  and  without  prejudice;  and, 
whatever  fault  one  might  find  with  M.  Guizot,  it  would 
necessarily  be  accompanied  with  an  acknowledgment  of  a 
peculiar  originality,  which  belongs  only  to  him.  Even 
when  he  narrates,  as  in  his  L//V  of  Washington,  it  is  of 


GUIZOT.  217 

a  certain  abstract  beauty  that  he  gives  us  an  impression, 
not  of  an  external  beauty  that  is  designed  to  please  the 
eyes.  His  language  is  strong  and  ingenious;  it  is  not 
naturally  picturesque.  He  uses  always  the  graver,  never 
the  brush.  His  style,  in  the  fine  passages,  is  like  reflec- 
tions from  brass  and,  as  it  were,  of  steel,  but  reflections 
under  a  gray  sky,  and  never  in  the  sunlight.  It  has  been 
said  of  the  worthy  Joinville,  the  ingenuous  chronicler,  that 
his  style  savors  still  of  his  childhood,  and  that  "  worldly 
things  are  created  for  him  only  on  the  day  when  he  sees 
them."  At  the  other  extremity  of  the  historic  chain,  with 
Gruizot,  it  is  quite  the  contrary.  His  thought,  his  very 
recital,  assumes  spontaneously  a  kind  of  abstract,  half- 
philosophical  appearance.  He  communicates  to  everything 
that  he  touches,  a  tint,  so  to  speak,  of  an  anterior  reflec- 
tion. He  is  astonished  at  nothing;  he  explains  whatever 
he  presents  to  you,  he  gives  the  reason  for  it.  A  person 
who  knew  him  well  said  of  him :  "  That  which  he  has 
known  only  since  morning,  he  appears  to  have  known 
from  all  eternity."  In  fact,  an  idea  in  entering  that 
lofty  mind  loses  its  freshness;  it  instantly  fades,  and  be- 
comes in  a  manner  antique.  It  acquires  premeditation, 
firmness,  weight,  temper,  and  sometimes  a  gloomy  splendor. 

All  this  being  said,  it  is  just  to  admit  that  in  the  sec- 
ond volume  of  the  History  of  the  English  Revolution,  there 
are  passages  of  a  continuous  narrative  which  are  irre- 
proachable. It  is  when  M.  Guizot  abandons  himself  to 
his  favorite  manner,  as  in  the  late  Discourse,  that  every- 
thing in  his  writing  naturally  turns  into  reflections.  The 
v^y  description  of  a  fact  is  already  a  result. 

But  we  cannot  properly  estimate  M.  Guizot  as  a  writer, 

unless  we  also  speak  of  the   orator.      The  one   is   closely 
10 


218  MONDAY-CHATS. 

connected  with,  and  has  reacted  on,  the  other.     Generally, 
it  is  the  writer   (as  Cicero  has  observed)  that  contributes 
to   form   the   orator.      In  Guizot,  it  is   rather  the   orator 
that  has  contributed  to  perfect  the  writer,  and  some  one 
has  gone    so    far    as    to    say  that  it  is  upon    the    marble 
of   the    tribune  that   he    has    finished    polishing  his  style. 
M.   Guizot,  in    his   first    attempts,    did    not    always   write 
well;  at  least,  he  wrote  very  unequally.      As  soon,  how- 
ever, as  his  feelings  were  roused,  in  his  polemical  articles, 
in  his  pamphlets,  he  had  much  point  and  sharpness.     For 
a  long  time  I  have  heard  it  said  that  M.  Guizot  did  not 
write  well.      It  is  necessary  to  think  twice  before  deny- 
ing  that   he   has  a  certain  quality;    for,   with   that  tena- 
cious and  ardent  will  of  his,  he  may  not  be  long  in  win- 
ning the  very  quality  which    one    denies    to  him,  and   in 
saying,  "Here  it   is!"      As  a  professor,  M.  Guizot   spoke 
well,  but  with  nothing  extraordinary  in  his  manner;  there 
was  clearness,  a  perfect  lucidity  of  expression,  Init  along 
with  repetitions   of  abstract   terms;    very  little    elegance, 
little   warmth.      One  has  always  the  warmth  of  his  am- 
bition.     The    ambition   of   M.  Guizot  was    not   to  feel  at 
ease,  and   at   home,  as  it  were,  till   it    entered   upon  the 
parliamentary  stage,  into  the  heart  of  political  struggles; 
it  was  then  that  he  became  wholly  himself  and  began  to 
grow.      He    needed   some    apprenticeship    still;    but    from 
1837    he    displayed    all    his    talent.     He    had    not    merely 
what  I  call  the  warmth  of  his  ambition;   he  had  at  mo- 
ments   its    flame    in    his    speech.      That    flame,    however, 
burst  forth  chiefly  in  his  look,  gesture,  and  action.      His 
speech,  taken  separately,  has  force  and  nerve  rather  than 
fire.     I  check  myself  in  these  praises.     One  cannot,  if  he 
is  patriotic,  confine  himself  here  to  the  literary  point  of 


GUIZOT.  219 

view;  for  —  is  it  possible  to  forget  it? — that  speech  has 
translated  itself  into  acts,  it  has  had  too  real  conse- 
quences. That  marvellous  faculty  of  authority  and  se- 
renity (to  take  a  word  which  he  affects),  that  sovereign 
art  of  imparting  to  things  an  apparent  simplicity,  a  de- 
ceitful clearness,  which  is  purely  fanciful,  was  one  of  the 
principal  causes  of  the  illusion  which  destroyed  the  last 
administration.  Eloquence,  to  that  extent,  is  a  great 
power;  but  is  it  not  also  one  of  those  deceitful  i)owers  of 
which  Pascal  has  spoken?  In  the  last  years  of  the  pre- 
ceding administration,  there  were  two  very  distinct  at- 
mospheres, that  within  the  Chamber  and  that  without. 
When  the  eloquence  of  M.  Guizot  had  reigned  within, 
when  it  had  refilled  and  renovated  that  artificial  atmos- 
phere, it  was  believed  that  the  storms  had  been  conjured 
away.  But  the  atmosphere  without  was  so  much  the 
more  charged,  and  out  of  equilibrium  with  the  air  with- 
in.    Hence  the  final  explosion. 

The  stj-le  of  M.  Guizot  has  come  forth  from  these 
trials  of  the  tribune  firmer  and  better  tempered  than  be- 
fore; his  thought  has  come  forth  unmodified.  The  pres- 
ent Discourse,  which  he  has  just  published,  attests  this 
statement.  This  Discourse  is  written  with  a  master's 
hand,  but  it  has  also  a  master's  tone.  He  views  the 
English  Revolution  in  its  whole  course,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  troubles  under  Charles  I  till  after  the  reign  of 
William  III,  and  even  till  the  complete  consolidation  of 
the  Settlement  of  1688.  Looking  at  the  direct  intention 
which  is  visible  in  the  picture,  and  which  appears  form- 
ally in  the  conclusions,  it  is  clear  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
eminent  historian,  all  the  lessons  which  that  English 
Revolution,  already  so  fertile    in    real  or   false    analogies, 


220  MONDAY-CHATS. 

may  furnish   us,   are    not   exhausted.      This    prepossession 
with  the  English  government  and  with  the  English  rem- 
edy applied    to    our    malady,    does    not    seem    to    me   less 
grave  an  error,  and  one  that  has  been  already  sufficient- 
ly fatal,  because  it  is  a  more  specious  one  and  touches  us 
more  nearly.      For    example,  much    has  been   said,  under 
the    preceding    constitutional    government,    of    the    land 
of  law:    "The   land  of   law  is  the   one   for    us;    ours   is 
the  land  of  latv^      To  what  has  this  led?      In  England, 
such  a  saying  is  significant;    for  there,  before  everything 
else,  one  has  respect  for  law.      In  France,  it  is  to   other 
instincts   that  one   must   appeal,  it  is  other  feelings   that 
one    must    lay    hold    of,    to    maintain    even    the    land    of 
law.     The  Gallic  people  are  rapid,  tumultuous,  inflamma- 
ble.     Is  it  necessary  to    recall   to   the    historian  who  has 
known    and    described    the    two    countries,  these  essential 
differences  of  genius  and  of  character?    Yet  it  is  through 
the    character   rather   than    through    the    ideas   that   men 
are  governed.     A  foreigner,  a  man  of  genius,  was  accus- 
tomed   to    divide  human   nature    into    two    parts,  human 
nature   in   general    and  the  French   naiure,    meaning   that 
the    latter    so    sums    up    and    combines    in    it    the    incon- 
stancies, the  contradictions,  and  the  caprices  of  the  other, 
that   it   forms  a  variety,  and    a   kind    of  distinct  species. 
M.  de  la  Eochefoucauld,  who  had  seen  the  Fronde  and  all 
its   changes,  said    one    day  to   cardinal  Mazarin:    "Every- 
thing happens  in  France!"     It  was  the  same  moralist,  a 
contemporary  of   Cromwell,  who  was  the    author  of  that 
other   saying,  which  is  so  true,  and  which  too  many  sys- 
tematic  historians    forget:    "Fortune  and    humor    govern 
^he  world."     Understand  by  humor  the  temperament  and 
character  of   men,  the  stubbornness   of  princes,  the   com- 


GUIZOT.  221 

plaisance  and  presumption  of  ministers,  the  iri'itation 
and  the  spite  of  party  chiefs,  the  turbulent  disposition  of 
the  peoples,  and  say,  you  who  have  had  experience  of 
public  aifairs,  and  who  speak  no  longer  in  front  of  the 
stage,  if  that  is  not  to  a  great  extent  true.  It  is  then 
only  with  the  utmost  discreetness,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
one  should  propose  general  remedies  made  wp  only  of 
speculations.  M.  Guizot,  after  having  considered  in  his 
masterly  way  the  English  and  the  Ainerican  Eevolutions, 
recognizes  in  them  three  great  men,  Cromwell,  William 
III,  and  Washington,  who  remain  in  history  as  the  chiefs 
and  representatives  of  those  sovereign  crises  that  deter- 
mined the  fate  of  two  powerful  nations.  He  character- 
izes them,  one  after  the  other,  by  broad  outlines.  All 
three  succeeded,  the  last  two  the  most  completely,  Crom- 
well less  so:  he  succeeded  only  in  maintaining  his  own 
position,  and  founded  nothing.  M.  Guizot  attributes  this 
diiference  to  the  fact  that  AVilliam  III  and  Washington, 
"  even  amidst  a  revolution,  never  accepted  nor  acted 
upon  the  revolutionary  policy."  He  believes  that  Crom- 
well's misfortune  was  in  having  at  first,  by  the  neces- 
sity of  his  position,  to  adopt  and  practice  a  policy  whose 
alloy  rendered  his  power  always  precarious.  M.  Gui- 
zot concludes  from  this  that,  under  all  forms  of  gov- 
ernment, whether  a  monarchy  or  a  republic  is  concerned, 
an  aristocratic  society  or  a  democratic,  the  same  light 
shines  forth  from  the  facts;  ultimate  success  is  obtained, 
he  says,  only  in  the  name  of  the  same  principles  and  by 
the  same  means.  The  revolutionary  spirit  is  as  fatal  to 
the  great  persons  whom  it  raises  up  as  to  those  whom  it 
casts  down. 

M.  Guizot  will    permit  me   here   to   say  that  this  con- 


222  MONDAY-CHATS. 

elusion,  while  it  is  generally  true,  is  perfectly  vague  and 
sterile.  To  say  generally  to  those  who  govern  a  state, 
that  they  must  not  be  in  any  degree  revolutionary,  is 
not  to  give  any  indication  whatever  of  the  ways  and 
means,  the  contrivances  necessary  to  preserve  it;  for  it 
is  in  the  detail  of  each  situation  that  the  difficulty  lies, 
and  that  there  is  a  field  for  skill.  If  you  go  and  say  to 
a  commander  of  an  army:  "Adopt  only  the  defensive 
method,  never  the  offensive,"  will  he  be  much  better  pre- 
pared to  gain  a  battle?  As  if  there  were  no  moments, 
also,  when,  to  defend  Rome,  it  is  necessary  to  go  and 
attack  Carthage! 

In  what  relates  to  men  in  particular,  the  conclusion 
of  M.  Guizot  appears  to  me  much  too  absolute.  Crom- 
well, you  say,  only  half  succeeded,  because  he  was  revo- 
lutionary. I  will  add  that  Robespierre  afterward  fell 
through  the  same  cause,  and  for  other  reasons  besides. 
But  Augustus  succeeded  in  both  characters.  He  was 
by  turns  Octavius  and  Augustus;  he  proscribed  and  he 
founded  an  empire.  And  as  that  same  Augustus  tells  us 
so  eloquently  by  the  mouth  of  the  great  Corneille: 

Mais  Texemple  souvent  n'est  qu'un  miroir  trompeur; 
Et  Fordre  du  Destin,  qui  gene  nos  pensees, 
N'est  pas  toujours  ecrit  dans  les  choses  passees. 
Quelquefois  Tun  brise  ou  I'autre  est  sauve, 
Et  par  ou  Tun  perit  un  autre  est  conserve. 

/  This  is  the  only  practical  philosophy  of  history:  noth- 
ing absolute,  an  experience  always  called  in  question 
again,  and  the  unexpected  concealing  itself  in  resem- 
blances. 

Bossuet  has  the  habit,  in  his  views,  of  introducing 
Providence,  or  rather  he  does  not  introduce  it:  it  reigns, 


GUizoT.  223 

with  him,  in  a  continual  and  sovereign  way.  I  admii-e 
that  religious  inspiration  in  the  great  bishop;  but,  prac- 
tically, it  has  led  him  to  divine  right  and  sacred  politics. 
In  the  modern  historians,  who  have  risen  to  general  and 
purely  rational  views.  Providence  intervenes  only  at  inter- 
vals, and,  so  to  speak,  at  the  great  moments.  The  more 
discreet  and  rare  that  intervention  is,  as  described  by 
them,  the  more  real  reverence  it  attests;  for,  in  many 
cases,  when  one  is  prodigal  of  it,  it  may  seem  much  rather 
an  implement  of  discourse,  an  oratorical  and  social  effect, 
than  a  heart-felt  and  truly  sincere  exaltation.  This  is 
not  the  case  with  M.  Guizot.  He  has  from  the  beginning 
cherished  the  religious  sentiment,  a  turn  of  mind  and,  as 
it  were,  habitual  gesture  directed  toward  Providence. 
For  a  man,  however,  who  reverences  and  worships  it  to 
such  a  degree,  he  makes,  I  think,  too  frequent  and  too 
familiar  use  of  that  mysterious  intervention.     He  says: 

"The  fall  of  Clarendon  has  been  ascribed  to  the  faults  of 
his  character,  and  to  certain  faults  or  checks  of  his  policy,  at 
home  or  abroad.  This  is  to  ignore  the  greatness  of  the  causes 
which  decide  the  fates  of  eminent  men.  Providence,  irhich  imposes 
upon  them  a  task  so  hard,  does  not  treat  them  so  rigorously  as 
to  refuse  to  pardon  their  iveaknesses,  and  inconsiderateli/  to  over- 
throw them,  on  account  of  certain  wrongs  they  have  done,  or 
certain  defeats  of  then-  policy.  Richelieu,  Mazarin,  Walpole,  had 
their  defeats,  committed  faults,  and  experienced  checks  as  grave 
as  those  of  Clarendon.  But  they  understood  their  time;  the  aims 
and  efforts  of  their  policy  were  in  harmony  with  its  needs,  with 
the  general  condition  and  movement  of  minds.  Clarendon  was 
deceived  about  his  epoch;  he  did  not  recognize  the  meaning  of 
the  great  events  in  which  he  took  part.  ..." 

So,  you  appear  to  believe  that  Providence  proceeds 
with  more  ceremony  when  it  deals  with  those  eminent 
men    whom    one    calls  Mazarin   or  Walpole,  than  when  it 


224  MONDAY-CHATS. 

deals  with  simply  honest  private  people!  You  leave  to 
these  last  the  petty  causes  and  the  paltry  accidents  which 
decide  their  destiny.  As  for  the  others,  the  real  states- 
men, the  ambitious  men  of  high  rank,  you  believe  that 
they  never  succumb  except  from  motives  worthy  of  them, 

worthy  of  the   painful   sacrifice   to  which  they  subject 

themselves  in  governing  us.  In  a  word,  you  believe  that 
Providence  thinks  twice  before  it  causes  them  to  fall. 
For  myself,  I  believe  that  at  the  moment  that  it  looks 
at  the  matter,  a  single  glance  and  a  single  rule  answers 
with   it   for    all.     But    of    that    rule   we    are    profoundly 

ignorant. 

I  might  select  again  some  other  assertions  equally  ab- 
solute, equally  gratuitous,  and  which  make  me  doubt  the 
intrinsic  reasonableness  of  this  imposing  philosophy.     But 
if  one  examines  the  Discourse  with  respect  to  the  subject 
itself  of  which  it  treats,  that  is  to  say,  the  English  Eevo- 
lution,  there   is   much   to   praise.     When   I   question   the 
possibility  of  man's  attaining  to  the  thousand  distant  and 
various  causes,  I  am  far  from  objecting  to   that  order  of 
considerations    and    conjectures   by   which,    within    deter- 
minate   limits,    one    tries    to    connect    effects    with    their 
causes.     It  is  the  noble  science  of  Machiavelli  and  Mon- 
tesquieu, when  they  both  treat  of  the  Romans.     The  Eng- 
lish Revolution,  considered  in  its  proper  elements  and  in 
its  limits,  that  Revolution  which  presents  itself  to  us,  as 
it  were,  shut  up  in  an  enclosed  field,  lends   itself  better 
than  any  other,  perhaps,  to  such  a  study,  and  M.  Guizot 
is  better  fitted  than  any  other  person  to  treat  it  proper- 
ly, without   mingling  with   it   those   disputed   conclusions 
which  each  one  draws  for  himself.     We  might  point  out 
in  his  Discourse   some    portraits  vigorously  and   saliently 


GUizoT.  225 

drawn,  notably  those  of  Monk  and  Cromwell.  Finally, — 
need  it  be  said?  —  the  talent  which  shows  ns  all  this 
is  masterly.  But  even  when  we  consider  only  the  con- 
clusions concerning  the  English  Revolution,  the  chain 
of  causes  and  effects,  as  there  set  forth,  will  appear  too 
extended.  The  author,  at  each  decisive  crisis,  is  not  con- 
tent with  explaining  it;  he  declares  that  it  could  not 
have  taken  place  otherwise.  It  is  habitual  for  him  to 
say:  "  It  was  too  soon  ...  it  was  too  late  .  .  .  God  was 
beginning  simply  to  execute  his  laws  and  to  give  his  les- 
sons" (page  31).     What  do  you  know  about  it? 

Let  us  remain  men  in  history.  Montaigne,  who  loved 
it  better  than  any  other  reading,  has  given  us  the  reasons 
for  his  predilection,  and  they  are  ours.  He  loved,  he  tells 
us,  only  the  simple  and  ingenuous  historians  who  re- 
counted facts  without  choice  or  selection,  in  good  faith; 
or,  among  the  other  more  learned  and  nobler  historians, 
he  loved  only  the  best,  those  who  know  how  to  choose 
and  to  say  that  which  is  worthy  of  being  said.  But  the 
intermediate  ones  (as  he  calls  them)  "spoil  all  for  us;  they 
wish  to  chew  the  mouthfuls  for  us;  they  lay  down  rules 
for  judging,  and  consequently  for  bending  history  to  their 
fancy;  for  since  the  judgment  leans  to  one  side,  they 
cannot  help  turning  and  twisting  the  narration  accord- 
ing to  that  bias."  That  is  the  rock,  and  a  talent,  even 
of  the  first  order,  does  not  save  one  from  it.  At  least, 
an  experience  absolutely  perfect  is  necessary  to  guard 
one  against  it,  as  it  seems  to  me.  The  superior  men, 
who  have  been  acquainted  with  public  affairs,  and  who 
have  relinquished  them,  have  a  great  role  still  to  fill, 
but  on  condition  that  that  role  be  quite  different  from 
the  first,  and  that  it  even  be  no  longer  a  role.     Initiated 


226  MOXDAY-CHATS. 

as  they  have  been  into  the  secret  of  things,  into  the  van- 
ity of  good  counsels,  into  the  illusion  of  the  best  minds, 
into  human  corruption,  let  them  sometimes  tell  us  some- 
thing of  these  things;  let  them  not  disdain  to  make  us 
touch  with  our  finger  the  little  springs  which  have  often 
played  at  the  greatest  moments.  Let  them  not  always 
force  iguindent)  humanity.  The  lesson  which  springs  out 
of  history  must  not  be  direct  and  stiff;  it  must  not  be 
fired  off  at  us  point-blank,  so  to  speak,  but  should  sweet- 
ly exhale  and  insinuate  itself.  It  should  be  savory,  as 
we  said  lately  regarding  Commynes;  it  is  a  lesson  entire- 
ly moral.  Do  not  fear  to  show  these  mean  things  in 
your  great  pictures;  the  dignity  will  find  its  way  into 
them  afterward.  The  nothingness  of  man.  the  littleness 
of  his  most  exalted  reason,  the  inanity  of  that  which  once 
appeared  wise,  all  the  labor,  study,  talent,  accomplish- 
ment, and  meditation  that  are  needed  to  frame  even  an 
error, —  all  this  leads  back  also  to  a  severer  thought,  to 
the  thought  of  a  supreme  force;  but  then,  instead  of 
speaking  in  the  name  of  that  force  which  baffles  us,  we 
bow  down,  and  history  yields  all  its  fruit. 
February  4,  1850. 


THE  ABBE   GALIANI. 


TN  speaking  some  time  ago  of  Madame  d'Epinay,  I  had 
-'-  occasion  to  notice  the  abbe  Galiani,  with  whom  that 
lady  carried  on  a  correspondence  during  the  last  twelve 
years  of  her  life.  The  abbe  Galiani  is  one  of  the  live- 
liest, the  most  original,  and  the  gayest  figures  of  the 
eighteenth  century;  he  wrote  a  good  number  of  his  works 
in  French;  he  belongs  to  our  literature  as  truh'  as  any 
stranger  naturalized  among  us,  almost  as  truly  as  Ham- 
ilton himself.  But,  at  the  same  time  that  he  entered  so 
well  into  the  ideas  and  tastes  of  French  society,  he  knew 
how  to  preserve  his  own  manner,  physiognomy,  and  ges- 
ture, and  also  an  independence  of  thought  which  pre- 
vented him  from  abounding  in  any  of  the  commonplaces 
of  the  time.  He  prided  himself  on  having  a  way  of  look- 
ing at  things  which  was  peculiar  to  him,  and  such  was 
the  fact,  for  he  did  not  see  like  anj^body  else.  The 
eighteenth  century,  judged  in  the  person  of  the  abbe 
Galiani,  reappeai*s  to  us  in  entirely  new  aspects. 

The  abbe  Ferdinand  Galiani,  born  in  the  kingdom  of 
Naples  on  the  tenth  day  of  December,  1728,  and  brought 
up  in  the  city  of  Naples  by  an  uncle  who  was  an  arch- 
bishop, manifested  the  most  precocious  talents  for  letters 
and  for  every  kind  of  science;  but,  physically,  he  was 
never  able  to  rise  above  four  feet  and  a  half  in  stature. 
In    that    little    body,   so    well    formed   and   so   handsome, 


228  MONDAY-CHATS. 

dwelt  nothing  but  talent,  grace,  lively  fancy,  and  pure 
wit;  the  gaiety  of  the  mask  covered  much  good  sense 
and  many  profound  ideas.  In  1748,  Galiani,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  became  celebrated  in  his  country  by  a  poetic 
pleasantry,  a  funeral  Oration  on  the  public  executioner 
who  had  just  died;  it  was  a  burlesque  parody  on  the 
Academical  Eulogiums,  which  were  far  more  bombastic 
in  Italy  than  elsewhere.  The  academicians  of  Naples, 
turned  into  ridicule,  made  an  uproar  which  increased  the 
success  of  the  ingenious  satire.  Galiani,  about  that  time, 
gave  himself  up  to  the  gravest  studies;  he  published  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one  a  book  upon  moneij ;  he  rendered 
to  an  illustrious  savant,  then  very  old  and  almost  blind, 
—  the  abbe  Intieri, —  the  service  of  describing  in  his  name, 
in  a  small,  substantial,  and  very  practical  treatise,  a  new 
way  of  preserving  grain.  He  gave  his  attention  also  to 
antiquities  and  to  natural  history.  Having  made  a  col- 
lection of  volcanic  stones  and  other  things  thrown  up  by 
Vesuvius,  he  added  to  it  a  learned  dissertation,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  pope  Benedict  XIV,  who  was  not  ungrateful. 
Upon  one  of  the  boxes  sent  to  the  address  of  the  Most 
Holy  Saint  Peter ^  Galiani  took  care  to  write  these  woi'ds 
from  the  Gospel:  "Make  these  stones  to  become  bread" 
{F(tc  ut  Japides  isti  panes  fiant).  The  amiable  Benedict 
XIV  took  the  hint,  and,  in  exchange  for  the  stones, 
gave  Galiani  a  benefice.  That  little  four-foot-and-a-half 
man,  so  gay,  so  foolish,  so  sensible,  and  so  learned,  was 
now  a  mitred  abbe,  and  had  the  title  of  My  Lord  (tnon- 
seigneur). 

He  came  to  Paris  in  1759  as  secretary  of  the  Italian 
embassy,  and,  with  the  exception  of  certain  brief  absences, 
he  resided  there  till   1769,  that  is  to  say,  for  ten  years: 


THE   ABBE    GALIANI.  229 

he  considered  that  he  had  lived  a  true  life  only  during 
that  time.  Distinguished  from  the  very  first  day  by  the 
singularity  of  his  stature,  he  at  once  disconcerted  jeering 
curiosity  and  changed  it  to  friendliness  by  the  vivacity 
and  piquancy  of  his  repartees.  He  was  the  delight  of  the 
social  circles,  which  appropriated  him  to  themselves;  his 
private  friends,  especially  Grimm  and  Diderot,  deeply  ap- 
preciated the  novelty  and  reach  of  his  views  and  his  lights: 
"  That  little  being,  born  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Vesuvius," 
cried  Grimm,  "  is  a  true  phenomenon.  He  joins  to  a 
luminous  and  profound  coup  (Tceil  a  vast  and  solid  eru- 
dition,—  to  the  views  of  a  man  of  genius  the  playfulness 
and  charm  of  a  man  who  seeks  only  to  be  amused  and 
pleased.  It  is  Plato  with  the  animation  and  gestures  of 
harlequin."  Marmontel  likewise  said  of  him:  "The  abbe 
Galiani  was  personally  the  prettiest  little  harlequin  that 
Italy  had  produced;  but  upon  the  shoulders  of  that  har- 
lequin was  the  head  of  Machiavelli."  That  name,  harle- 
quin, which  is  repeated  here,  is  characteristic  of  Galiani. 
French-like  as  he  was,  and  as  he  wished  to  be,  he  did 
not  cease  to  be  an  Italian,  a  Neapolitan,  a  fact  which 
must  never  be  forgotten  in  judging  of  him;  he  had  the 
peculiar  genius  of  the  soil,  facetiousness,  pleasantry,  a 
taste  for  parody.  In  an  article  of  his  upon  Punchinello, 
he  represents  him  as  born  in  the  country,  not  far  from 
the  place  where  the  atellan  farces  of  antiquity  had  their 
origin.  He  seems  to  think  that  the  spirit  of  those  an- 
cient farces  may  have  been  perpetuated  in  the  modern 
original,  and  the  little  abbe  himself  had  inherited  some- 
thing of  their  buffoonery  and  license.  He  had  great, 
lofty,  sublime  thoughts,  worthy  of  Vico  if  not  of  Plato, 
worthy  of  Magna    Gnecla,    and   suddenly  these    thoughts 


230  MONDAY-CHATS. 

were  put  to  flight  by  buffooneries,  jests,  fooleries,  or  some- 
thing worse:  "You  see,"  said  he  pleasantly,  "that  I  am 
two  different  men  kneaded  together,  who,  nevertheless,  do 
not  entirely  occupy  the  room  of  one." 

To-day  the  abbe  Galiani  loses  much;    we  should  have 
heard  him.     He  did  not  tell  his  stories;  he  played  them, 
he  had  some   of  the  qualities  of  the    mime.      Apropos  to 
every  serious  theme,  in   politics,  in   morality,  and  in   re- 
ligion, he  had  some  apologue,  some  good   story  to  tell,  a 
lively,   foolish,  unexpected   story,  which   made  you  laugh 
yourself  to  tears,  as  he  said,  and  which  often  concealed  a 
profound  moral  reflection.      He  made  a  little  play  of  it, 
an  acting  show,  bustling  about,  throwing  himself  to  and 
fro,  carrying  on  a  dialogue  in  each  scene  with  the  most 
artless  gracefulness,  making  the  spectators,  even  Madame 
Necker  and  Madame  Geoffrin,   put  up  with   liberties  and 
even  indecencies.      He  painted    himself   to    admiration  in 
a    letter   to    the    latter    person,    written    at    Naples.      In 
writing    it    he    mentally  sees    himself   again    at    Madame 
Geoffrin's,  and  he  depicts  himself  to   us  as  he  was  when 
there    in    times    past:    "See    me    then   as   ever,  the   abbe, 
the    little    abbe,    your    little    thing.      I  am    seated   in   the 
comfortable   arm-chair,   moving  my  feet  and   arms   like  a 
demoniac,  my  wig  awry,  talking  much,  and  saying  things 
which    one    deems    sublime    and    attributes    to    me.      Ah, 
madame,  what  a  mistake !     It  was  not  I  who  said  so  many 
beautiful    things;    your  arm-chairs    are    so    many   tripods 
of  Apollo,  and  I  was    the    Sibyl.      Be  assured   that  upon 
chairs   of  Neapolitan  straw  I  utter    only  stupid    things." 
No,  he  did  not  utter    stupid    things;    but,  at  Naples,  the 
kind  of  talent  which  he  had  in  the  highest    degree,  was 
more    common    than    at    Paris;    one    took    less    notice    in 


THE   ABBE   GALIANI.  231 

Naples  of  the  play,  the  action,  because  it  was  a  more 
customary  thing,  and  one  did  not  know  how  to  separate 
from  it  all  the  excellent  and  unique  ideas  which  Galiani 
veiled  under  this  guise.  This  gesticulating  petulance 
which  appeared  so  curious  at  first  at  Paris,  was  vulgar 
in  Toledo  street  and  its  neighborhood;  Galiani  lacked 
listeners  and  the  circle  for  himself  alone:  "  Paris,"  he 
often  cried  in  accents  of  despair  after  having  quitted  that 
city,  "  Paris  is  the  only  place  where  I  am  listened  to." 
Having  once  retired  to  his  own  country,  that  country 
which  he  nevertheless  loves,  and  of  which  he  is  one  of 
the  living  curiosities,  he  dies  of  words  returned  to  him 
unheard.  Galiani  is  a  true  Neapolitan  virtuoso,  but  one 
who  cannot  do  without  a  Parisian  auditory. 

And  how  he  was  relished  there!  Let  one  be  in  La 
Chevrette  at  Madame  d'Epinay's,  at  Grand  Val  with 
baron  D'Holbach;  if  one  feels  a  little  sad,  and  the  day 
lowers,  if  the  conversation  languishes,  if  the  rain  falls, 
the  abbe  Galiani  enters,  "  and  with  the  pleasant  abbe, 
gaiety,  imagination,  wit,  sportiveness,'-  everything  that 
causes  the  pains  of  life  to  be  forgotten.  The  abbe  has 
an  exhaustless  fund  of  sayings  and  pleasant  sallies,"  adds 
Diderot;  "he  is  a  treasure  on  a  rainy  day.  I  said  to 
Madame  d'Epinay,  that  if  they  made  such  persons  at  the 
toy-shops,  everybody  living  in  the  countiy  would  want 
to  have  one."  Of  these  happy  sayings  and  sallies  of  the 
abbe,  he  has  preserved  a  large  number.  Some  one  was 
speaking  of  the  trees  in  the  park  at  Versailles,  and  it 
was  remarked  that  they  were  tall,  straight  and  slender: 
"  Like  the  courtesans,'"  added  the  abbe  Galiani.  Fond  of 
music,  and  of  exquisite  music,  as  the  Neapolitans  are,  as 
the  friend  of  Paisiello  should  be,  he  disliked  the   French 


232  MOKDAY-CHATS. 

opera    of   the    time,    which    made    too    much    noise;    and 
when,  after  the  burning  of  the  hall  of  the  Palace-Royal, 
the  opera  had  been  transferred  to  the  Tuileries,  and  some 
one  complained  that  the  hall  was  bad  for  hearing:  "How 
happy  it  must  be!"  cried  Galiani.     But  many  people,  or  at 
least  more  persons  than  one,  have  these  sallies  which  spring 
out    of   the    occasion,  which    last    but  for  a   moment  and 
are  followed  by  a  long  silence;    but  with  the  abbe  Gali- 
ani there  was    no    silence;  he    sustained  the  conversation 
almost  alone;  he  enlivened  it  with  the  maddest,  merriest 
fancies,  which  were  yet  replete  with  fine  good  sense.     In 
this  he  had  no  parallel  in  his  class.     Diderot,  in  his  let- 
ters to  Mademoiselle  Voland,  has    preserved    some  of  the 
abbe's  good  stories,  that  of  the  -porco  sacro,  the  apologue 
of  the  tall  and  fat  monk  in  the   mail-coach,  the   story  of 
the    archbishop    counterfeiting  a  duchess   in  bed  before  a 
cardinal  who  visits  her,  and  the  colics  of  the  false  duchess 
and    what    follows,— in    fine,    a    thousand    untranslatable 
fooleries,   which,    narrated    by  Diderot    himself,    have    re- 
mained in  the  state  of  mere  rough  sketches.     All  this  is 
spoken,  is  played  and   improvised,  but  it  cannot  be  writ- 
ten.    The  ancients  had  the  mimes  (little  dramatic  pieces) 
of  Sophron,  which  have  been  lost;  we  have  lost  the  mimes 
of  Galiani.     Diderot,  however,  has  very  well  reported  the 
apologue    of    The  Cuckoo,   the   Nightingale,    and   the   Ass, 
and  one  may  read  it  in  his  works;  but  of  the   apologues 
of  Galiani  I  prefer  to  repeat   the    one  I  find  reported  in 
the    Memoirs    of   the    abbe    Morellet,   and   which   is  quite 

famous : 

One  day  at  baron  D'Holbach's,  after  dinner,  the  assem- 
bled philosophers  had  talked  of  God  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  had  said  things  fitted  "to  bring  down  thuu- 


THE   ABBE   GALIAJSTI.  233 

derbolts  upon  the  house  a  hundred  times,  if  they  ever 
fell  for  such  a  reason."  Galiani  had  listened  patiently  to 
ail  this  intrepid  dissertation;  finally,  tired  of  seeing  the 
whole  company  taking  but  one  side  of  the  question,  he 
said: 

"  Gentlemen  philosophers,  you  travel  very  fast ;  I  begin  by 
telling  you  that,  if  I  were  the  pope,  I  would  hand  you  over  to  the 
Inquisition,  and,  if  I  were  king  of  France,  to  the  Bastille:  but  as 
I  have  the  happiness  to  be  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  I  will 
come  back  to  dinner  next  Thursday,  and  you  shall  hear  me  as  I 
have  had  the  patience  to  hear  you,  and  I  will  refute  you," 

"  0«  Thursday!'''  they  all  cried  with  one  voice,  and 
the  challenge  was  accepted.     Morellet  continues: 

"Thursday  arrives.  After  dinner,  the  coffee  having  been  taken, 
the  abbe  seats  himself  in  an  arm  chair,  with  his  legs  crossed  like  a 
tailor's,  as  usual;  and,  as  it  is  warm,  he  takes  his  wig  with  one 
hand,  and  gesticulating  with  the  other,  he  begins  nearly  thus: 

'•'I  will  suppose,  gentlemen,  the  person  among  you  who  is 
most  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  world  is  the  work  of  chance, 
to  be  playing  with  three  dice,  I  do  not  say  in  a  gambling-house, 
but  in  the  best  house  in  Paris,  and  his  antagonist  throwing  dou- 
ble-sixes once,  twice,  three  times,  four  times,  in  fine  continually. 

'"However  short  the  game,  my  friend  Diderot,  if  he  should 
thus  lose  his  money,  would  say  without  hesitation,  without  a  mo- 
ment's doubt:  ''The  dice  are  loaded;  I  am  in  a  den  of  thieves.' 

"'Ah,  philosopher!  how  is  this?  Because  in  ten  or  twelve 
throws  the  dice  have  fallen  from  the  box  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  you  lose  six  francs,  you  firmly  believe  that  it  is  in  conse- 
quence of  an  adroit  contrivance,  of  an  artificial  combination,  of  a 
well- planned  trick;  and  yet,  when  you  see  in  this  universe  so 
prodigious  a  number  of  combinations,  a  thousand  and  thousand 
times  more  difficult,  and  more  complicated,  and  more  constant, 
and  more  useful,  etc.,  you  never  suspect  that  nature's  dice  are 
also  loaded,  and  that  there  is,  up  above  there,  a  great  knave 
(fripo)i)  who  makes  a  sport  of  overreaching  you.'  " 

Morellet  gives  only  the  outline  of  this  exposition,  which 

from  the  lips  of  Galiani  was  assuredly  (and  one  will  be- 
10* 


234  MONDAY-CHATS. 

lieve  it  without  difficulty)  the  most  piquant  thing  in  the 
world,  and  as  good  as  the  most  amusing  play. 

Here  are  our  philosophers  painted  from  life;    here  we 
have  them,  like  all  the  epicureans  in  the  world,  making 
a  play   of  the    gravest   questions    of  destiny   and   human 
morality,  a  pure  joust  or  game  of  their  leisure  hours,  in 
which   the  for   and   the   against   are    treated  with   equal 
levity,  and   yet  utterly  astonished   afterward   (I  speak  of 
those  who  survived,   like  the   abbe  Morellet),   if  one  day 
all  these  doctrines  burst  forth,  and  falling  upon  the  street, 
are  recapitulated  in  Revolution  Place  at  the   festivals  of 
Reason  and   the  other   goddesses.      The  people,  however, 
only  translated  there  the  reasoning  of  the  subtlest  think- 
ers;  they  translated  it  coarsely,   after  the  usual  way   of 
translators,  but  without  much  misconstruction. 

Galiani,  in  this  dispute,  has  the  appearance  of  playing 
a  noble   part;    he   seems  to  plead  in  favor  of  order  and 
the  supreme  Ordainer,  against  the   dogmatic  and  excess- 
ively brutal  atheism  of  his  friends:    let  us  not,  however, 
after  this  facetious  sermon,  form  too  edifying  an  idea  of 
his  performances.     He  had  too  much  acuteness  and  good 
sense  not  to  be  shocked  by  the  absolute  theories  of  D'Hol- 
bach:  "In  reality,"  he  thought,  "we  do  not  know  enough 
of   nature    to    form   a  system  of   it."      He    accused    those 
pretended  systems   of  nature  of  destroying   all   the    illu- 
sions that  are   natural  and   dear  to  man;    and  as  D'Hol- 
bach's  book  appeared  about  the  time  when  the  abbe  Ter- 
ray  issued  a  decree    of  bankruptcy,  he    said:    "That   M. 
Mirabaud  (D'Holbach's  pseudonym)  is  a  true  abbe  Terray 
of  metaphysics.      He    makes    reductions    and   suspensions, 
and  causes  the  bankruptcy  of  knowledge,  of  pleasure,  and 
of  the  human  mind." 


THE   ABBE    GALIANI.  235 

In  philosophy  the  true  system  of  the  abbe  Galiani  is 
this:  he  believes  that  man,  when  his  mind  is  not  too 
much  subtleized  by  raetajDhysics  and  excessive  reflection, 
lives  in  illusion,  and  was  made  to  live  in  it:  "Man,"  he 
tells  us,  "  was  made  to  enjoy  effects  without  the  ability  to 
divine  causes;  man  has  five  organs  framed  expressly  to 
indicate  to  him  pleasure  and  pain;  he  has  not  a  single 
organ  to  apprise  him  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  any- 
thing." Galiani  does  not  believe  then  in  absolute  truth 
for  man,  in  truth  worthy  of  the  name:  relative  truth, 
which  is  only  an  optical  illusion,  is  the  only  kind,  accord- 
ing to  him,  for  which  man  should  seek.  According  to 
him,  also,  there  is  an  illusion  in  morality  as  in  physics; 
it  produces  results  which,  relatively  to  society  and  man, 
may  be  beautiful  and  good.  It  is  because  the  human 
eye  was  fashioned  so  as  to  see  the  heavens  round  and 
vaulted,  that  man  afterward  invented  the  cupola,  the 
dome  of  the  temple,  sustained  by  columns,  which  is  a 
beautiful  thing  to  see.  So  in  morality,  our  internal  illu- 
sions regarding  liberty  and  the  first  cause  have  given 
birth  to  religion,  morality,  and  law,  all  of  which  are  use- 
ful things,  natural  to  man,  and  even  true  if  you  please, 
but  their  truth  is  purely  relative  and  wholly  dependent 
on  the  configuration,  on  the  first  illusion. 

We  see  to  what  such  a  way  of  looking  at  things  leads 
him,  in  religion  and  moralit,y.  But  if  he  prides  himself 
upon  being  himself  unaffected  by  illusory  views  and  rel- 
ative impressions,  he  is  not  furious  to  destroy  those  of 
other  persons,  a  characteristic  in  which  he  differs  essen- 
tially from  his  friends,  the  French  philosophers  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  would  quite  agree  with  any  one 
who  should  say:  "I  seem  to  be,  in  life,  in  an  apartment 


236 


MONDAY-CHATS. 


between  the  cellar  and  the  attic.  There  is  a  flooring 
which  conceals  the  girders,  and,  if  one  has  means,  he 
also  puts  a  carpet  under  his  feet.  One  tries  also  to 
adorn  his  ceiling,  to  hide  the  laths.  If  one  could  have 
upon  that  ceiling  a  beautiful  fresco,  a  sky  painted  by 
Raphael,  it  would  be  so  much  the  better.  So  with  the 
illusions  of  life  and  its  deceitful  perspectives;  it  is  neces- 
sary to  respect  them,  and  at  times  to  be  pleased  with 
them,  even  when  we  know  too  well  what  there  is  beyond 

them." 

This,  in   all   its   reality,  is   the   theology   of  the   abbe 
Galiani!  and  I  do  not  give  it,  even  when  viewed  from  the 
illusory  standpoint,  of  which  he   made  so  much,  as  very 
beautiful  or  consoling;  the  sum  total,  he  admits,  is  equal 
to.  zero.     But  in  his  scepticism  there  is  none  of  the  arro- 
gance and  intrepidity  of  doctrine  which  ofiends  us  in  his 
friends.     When  Madame  Geoffrin  fell  sick,  in  1776,  after 
some  devotional  excesses  which  she  had  committed  during 
the  Jubilee  exercises,  Galiani  wrote  to  Madame  d'Epinay: 
"  I  have  mused  over  that  strange  metamorphosis  (of  Madame 
Geoffrin),  and  I  have  found  that  it  was  the  most  natural  thmg  m 
the  world.     Incredulity  is  the   greatest  effort  which  the  mind  ot 
man  can  make  against  its  own  instinct  and  its  taste.     He  strives 
to  deprive  himself  forever  of  all  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination, 
of  all  taste  for  the  wonderful;  he  tries  to  empty  the  whole  sack 
of  knowledge  (and  man  would  know  all),  to  deny  or  to  doubt  al- 
ways and  to  doubt  everything,  and  to  remain  in  an  utter  impov- 
erishment   of    all    sublime    ideas,    knowledge,    and    mformation. 
What  a  frightful  void!  what  nothingness!  what  an  effort.     Itis, 
then,  demonstrated  that  the  great  majority  of  men,  and  especial- 
ly of  women  (whose  imagination  is  double  that  of  man),  could 
not  be  incredulous,  and  those  who  could  be  so,  would  be  able  to 
sustam  the  effort  only  while  enjoying  the  greatest  strength  and 
youthfulness  of  soul.     If  the  soul  should  grow  old,  a  certain  de- 
gree of  credulity  would  reappear." 


THE   ABBE    GALIAXI.  237 

He  adds  also  that  the  sceptic,  he  who  persists  in  being 
so  at  all  seasons,  "performs  a  real  feat:  that  he  resembles 
a  rope-dancer,  who  performs  the  most  incredible  feats  in 
the  air,  vaulting  about  his  cord:  he  astonishes  and 
frightens  all  the  spectators,  and  nobody  is  tempted  to 
follow  or  imitate  him.""  He  concludes  that  we  should 
never  persecute  true  unbelievers,  quiet  and  sincere  unbe- 
lievers; wait,  and  do  not  regard  them,  and  there  is  everv 

7  1  ~  '  f 

chance  that  a  moment  will  come  when  the  effort  against 
nature  will  begin  to  be  relaxed,  and  the  unbeliever  will 
be  such  no  longer. 

When  one  heard  him  talk  politics,  one  said  that  he 
was  equally  luminous  and  charming.  When  we  read 
to-day  the  observations  upon  political  themes  that  drop 
from  his  pen  in  his  Corresjjotidence,  allowance  must  be 
made  for  the  bold  ideas,  the  paradoxes,  the  necessity  of 
amusing  himself,  which  always  tormented  him,  his  mania 
for  predicting  and  prophes\-ing,  and  finally  for  the  per- 
petual buffooneries  which  are  mingled  with  all  that  he 
writes.  With  him  a  piece  of  grave  and  profound  rea- 
soning turns  suddenly  into  a  joke.  Nevertheless,  amid  all 
these  faults,  which  to-day  are  very  perceptible,  there  is 
much  good  sense,  many  ideas,  horizons  of  wide  extent, 
and  vistas  at  every  instant. 

The  two  contemporaries  with  whom  he  was  the  most 
intimate,  and  with  whom  he  had  the  most  affinity  in 
heart  and  mind,  Grimm  and  Diderot,  were  his  enthusi- 
astic admirers,  and  spoke  of  him  as  a  true  genius.  Ga- 
liani  himself  seems  to  have  no  aversion  to  that  way  of 
looking  at  him,  and  he  does  not  fear  to  say  off-hand, 
without  guarding  his  language:  Montesquieu  and  I.  Other 
contemporaries  seem  to  have  been   more  struck   with  his 


238  MONDAY-CHATS. 

faults.     The  wise  and  shrewd  David  Hume  writes  to  the 

able  Morellet: 

"The  abbe  Gahani  returns  to  Naples;  he  does  well  to  quit 
Paris  before  I  go  there,  for  1  should  certainly  have  put  him  to 
death  for  all  the  ill  things  he  has  said  of  England.  But  it  has 
turned  out  as  his  friend  Caraccioli  had  predicted,  who  said  that 
the  abbe  would  remain  two  months  in  that  country,  that  nobody 
would  have  a  chance  to  speak  but  he,  that  he  would  not  suffer 
an  Englishman  to  edge  in  a  syllable,  and  that  on  his  return  he 
would  pronounce  upon  the  character  of  the  nation,  and  would 
continue  to  do  so  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  as  if  he  had  known 
and  studied  that  character  exclusively." 

Galiani  had  at  a  certain   moment  a  great  success  and 
a  real  triumph.      "About  the  year   1750,"  says  Voltaire, 
"the    nation,    satiated    with    verses,    tragedies,    comedies, 
operas,    romances,    romantic    histories,    moral     reflections 
more  romantic  still,  and  theological  disputes  about  Grace 
and    convulsions,    set    itself    at    last    to    reasoning    about 
yrain.      People    forgot    even    the    vines,  to    talk    only    of 
wheat  and   rye.  ..."     Grain,    and    all  that   is   connected 
with   that   trade,  was,  then,  very   fashionable  during   the 
sojourn  of  the  abbe  Galiani  in  France.     Was  it  necessary 
to  grant  it  a  free   exportation?     Should   the    exportation 
be  regulated  or  forbidden?     The   economic  sect  was  then 
established,    and    enlightened    men    gave    great    attention 
and  respect  to  these  systematic  views.     Galiani,  who  was 
very   much   at   home    in    such    discussions,    and   who   had 
studied    these    questions    before    coming    to    France,    was 
horrified  by  absolute  ideas  upon  such  subjects,  and,  above 
all,  by    the    dogmatic,  trenchant,   mysterious,   and    weari- 
some way  in  which  the  economists  presented  theirs.     He 
set  himself  to  reasoning  and  jesting  on  the  matter.    It  ap- 
pears that  it  was  to  some  pleasantry  in  which  he  allowed 


THE    ABBE    GALIANI.  239 

himself  to  indulge  upon  this  subject, —  pleasantries  of 
which  M.  Choiseul  was  the  victim,  and  which  related  to 
the  concessions  which  that  minister  had  made  to  the  new 
ideas, —  that  the  abbe  owed  his  recall  from  France,  which 
had  been  requested  of  the  Neapolitan  Court  by  Choiseul 
himself.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Galiani,  on  leaving,  shot  his 
arrow;  he  left  in  manuscript  his  Dialogues  upon  the  Grain 
Trade,  which  appeared  in  1770,  and  of  which  Diderot 
revised  the  proofs.  That  was  the  fireworks  and  the  bou- 
quet with  which  the  witty  abbe  brilliantly  crowned  the 
period  of  his  Parisian  life.  We  can  form  no  idea  to-day. 
of  the  success  of  those  Dialogues;  the  women  doted  upon 
them,  they  thought  they  understood  them;  they  were 
then  economists,  as  they  were  afterward  electricians,  as 
they  had  previously  been  believers  in  Grace,  as  they  are 
to-day  to  some  extent  Socialists:  they  are  always  follow- 
ing the  fashion  of  the  day  or  of  the  morrow.  These 
Dialogues  of  Galiani  have  been  compared  to  the  Brief 
Letters  of  Pascal;  that  is  saying  a  good  deal.  They  are 
less  easy  to  read  to-day  than  the  Provincial  Letters,  which 
are  themselves  a  little  wearisome  in  some  passages.  Ga- 
liani chose  the  dialogue  form  of  composition,  as  being  the 
most  French-like  style:  "That  is  the  natural  style,"  said 
he.  "  The  language  of  the  most  social  people  in  the  world, 
the  language  of  a  nation  which  speaks  more  than  it 
thinks,  of  a  nation  which  needs  to  speak  in  order  to 
think,  and  which  thinks  only  in  order  to  speak,  should 
be  the  language  best  fitted  for  dialogue."  With  regard 
to  the  subject-matter, —  in  combating  the  absolute  ideas 
and  reasonings  of  the  economists,  Galiani  aimed  to  give 
a  glimpse  of  the  political  ideas  which  should  rule  and 
even    dominate    in    these    matters.      When    he    said    of  a 


240  MONDAY-CHATS. 

man:   "He  is   an   economist,  and    nothing   more,"   he  be- 
lieved that  he   had  pronounced   sentence   upon    him,  and 
excluded   him    from    the    sphere    of  statesmen.     "He  is  a 
good  man  to  compose  memoirs,  journals,  or  dictionaries," 
added  he,— "  to  give  occupation  to  printers  and  booksell- 
ers, to  amuse  the  idle;  but  as  to  governing  the  state,  he  is 
good  for  nothing."     A  statesman,  according  to  him,  should 
not  only  have  a  thorough  knowledge   of  special  subjects, 
but  he  should  also  know  the  matter  par  excellence  upon 
which  he  has  to  operate,  that  is  to  say,  the  human  heart. 
"You  are  a  delicate   anatomist   of  man,"   says  the  Mar- 
quis of  the  Dialogues  to  the   Chevalier.      The  latter  re- 
plies:   "That    is    what    one    should   be,  when    one    would 
speak  of   men.      They  must   be  well   understood   by  him 
who  presumes  to  govern  them."     He  denied  that  Turgot 
himself  had  that  knowledge  and  that  art,  and  with  far 
more    reason    he    affirmed    the   same    of   the    men   of   the 
economic   school.      Galiani  did  not  have  to  wait  for  the 
alarm    and    trumpet-peal    of   the    French    Revolution,   in 
order  to  distrust  the  optimist  and  rationalistic  statesmen, 
the  honest   people  so  well   known  in  the  time  of  Lewis 
XIV  and   afterward,  who  too  often  forget  the  true,  real, 
and  always  perilous  circumstances  of  every  political  soci- 
ety.    "Believe  me,"  said  he,  "do  not  fear  the  rogues,  nor 
the  wicked  men,  for  sooner  or  later  they  are  unmasked; 
fear   the   honest   man    who  is  deceived;    he  acts  in  good 
faith,  he  means  well,  and  everybody  trusts  him;   but  un- 
happily  he    is    deceived    concerning    the    means    of   doing 
good  to  his  fellow  men."     Galiani's  friends,  and  the  abbe 
himself,  were    accustomed   to  say   of  his   work   on  grain: 
"It  is  not  so  much  a  work  on  the  Grain-Trade  as  a  work 
on  the  Science  of  Government:    one  should  know  how  to 


THE   ABBE   GALIANI.  241 

read  the  ivhite  in  it,  and  between  the  lines.''''  The  French 
Government  charged  the  abbe  Morellet  with  the  task  of 
replying  to  Galiani,  and  the  former  abbe,  who  was  as 
tall  as  the  other  was  short,  as  didactic  and  heavy  with 
the  pen  as  the  other  was  light  and  sparkling,  replied  in 
such  a  way  as  to  win  no  readers.  He  has  none  of  the 
waggeries  which  the  malicious  Neapolitan,  during  that 
dispute,  addressed  from  afar  to  his  patient  and  slow  ad- 
versary. Turgot,  whose  economic  principles  were  very 
much  concerned  in  the  discussion,  has  given  his  opinion 
of  Galiani's  book,  and  without  despising  its  agreeable 
qualities,  has  written  some  words  which  clearly  mark  the 
opposite  nature  of  their  views,  inspirations,  and  doctrines. 
"  I  do  not  like  any  better,"  says  he,  after  some  criticisms 
upon  Galiani"s  hop-and-skip  method,  designed  to  puzzle 
the  reader,  "  I  do  not  like  to  see  him  always  so  prudent, 
so  hostile  to  enthusiasm,  so  very  much  in  sympathy  with 
all  the  Ne  quid  niniis,  and  with  all  those  people  who 
enjoy  the  present,  who  are  very  much  at  ease,  wiio  let 
the  world  wag,  because  it  goes  very  well  with  them, — 
people  who,  having  their  bed  well  made,  are  unwilling 
that  any  one  should  disturb  it."  Turgot  touches  here  on 
one  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  little  mitred  and  beneficed 
abbe. 

Galiani  believed  in  a  secret  doctrine  in  everything,  in 
a  secret  intention  which  few  people  are  called  upon  to 
peneti'ate,  and  which  even  men  of  great  talent  do  not 
suspect.  He  pretended,  in  his  half-serious,  half-jesting 
way,  in  which  the  thought  is  duplicated  with  the  joke, 
that  there  are  three  kinds  of  reasonings  or  resoundiiigs 
(resonnements):    1.  The  reasoning  of  dunces  (cruches);  they 

ai'e,  as  he  believed,  the  most  ordinary  kind,  those  of  the 
11 


242  MONDAY-CHATS. 

mass  of  men;  2.  The  reasonings  or  resoundings  of  bells 
(cloches);  these  are  the  kind  employed  by  many  poets  and 
orators,  by  people  of  high  talents,  but  who,  according  to 
the  abbe,  are  influenced  too  much  by  appearances,  by  the 
majestic  and  resounding  forms  of  the  human  illusion. 
He  dared  to  range  in  this  class  of  reasonings  those  of 
Bossuet  and  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau.  3.  Finally,  there 
are,  according  to  him  again,  the  reasonings  of  men,  of  the 
true  sages,  of  those  who  have,  cracked  the  nut  (like  the 
abbe  elliani),  and  who  have  found  that  it  contains  noth- 
ing. I  think  that  in  his  most  serious  moments  he  would 
have  defined  the  sage  as  "  he  who,  in  the  hours  of  reflec- 
tion, disengages  and  divests  himself  completely  of  all 
relative  impressions,  and  who  accounts  for  his  own  proper 
accident,    his    own    nothing,    amidst    the    universality    of 

things." 

The  abbe  Galiani  quitted  Paris,  no  more  to  return,  in 
the  summer  of  1769,  and  it  is  at  this  date  that  his  cor- 
respondence with  Madame  d'Epinay  begins;  it  is  by  means 
of  her  that  he  is  reattached  to  his  Parisian  friends,  and 
he  will  very  often  have  occasion  to  repeat  to  her:  "I  am 

lost  if  you  fail  me." 

This  little  Machiavelli,  who  afi'ected  a  lack  of  feeling, 
who  boasted  that  he  never  wept  in  his  life,  and  that  he 
had  seen  with  dry  eyes  his  father,  mother,  sister,  all  his 
friends,  pass  away  (he  calumniated  himself),  wept  and 
sobbed  on  quitting  Paris,  on  quitting,  as  he  said,  "that 
amiable  nation  which  has  loved  me  so  much."  It  was 
necessary  to  tear  him  away  from  it,  since  of  himself  he 
never  would  have  had  strength  to  leave  it.  His  entire 
Correspondence  is  but  one  long  regret.  The  city  of  Na- 
ples, which  has  so  many  attractions  for  one  who  has  seen 


THE   ABBE   GALIANI.  243 

it  but  once,  and  in  which  one  would  like  to  die,  appeared 
to  him  but  a  place  of  exile.  "  Life  there  has  a  killing 
uniformity.  What  can  one  do  with  himself  in  a  country 
where  they  dispute  about  nothing,  not  even  about  religion?'''' 
He  finds  occupation  there,  nevertheless,  and  of  a  more  se- 
rious kind  than  he  pretends.  A  servant  of  the  king, 
Counsellor-Secretary  of  Commerce,  he  judges,  or  professes 
to  judge,  difficult  cases;  he  applies  himself  in  the  inter- 
vals of  duty  to  letters  and  study;  he  revises,  corrects,  and 
prepares  new  editions  of  his  early  writings:  "they  are 
all  in  Italian;  there  are  dissertations,  verses,  prose,  anti- 
quarian researches,  detached  thoughts:  all  this  writing  is, 
indeed,  very  youthful,  still  it  is  mine.'''  He  artlessly  re- 
veals to  us,  in  these  things  of  the  mind,  his  parental  ten- 
derness. He  also  applies  himself  to  new  tasks;  he  pushes 
still  farther  his  studies  on  Horace,  upon  whom  he  had 
already  commented  with  a  rare  taste,  sharpened  with 
paradox;  he  thinks  of  drawing  from  his  favorite  poet  a 
complete  moral  philosophy.  He  gives  himself  up,  with  a 
passion  which  one  loves  to  recognize,  to  his  Neapolitan 
dialect,  maintaining  its  superiority  and  priority  to  the 
other  Italian  dialects;  he  compares  it  to  the  Doric  of  the 
Greeks.  Among  the  celebrated  poets  and  prose-writers 
in  that  patois,  one  would  find,  I  imagine,  more  than  one 
type  of  Galiani  remaining  in  the  pure  state,  and  not  cut 
out  after  the  French  fashion.  Having  become  a  Neapol- 
itan again,  the  abbe,  that  he  may  not  lose  the  habit,  be- 
gins again  to  make  fun  of  fools,  the  literary  pedants  of 
the  town,  and,  under  the  title  of  2'he  Imaginary  Socrates, 
he  constructs  a  theatrical  piece,  an  opera  boufte,  the 
verses  of  which  are  composed  by  another  person,  and  the 
music    by   the   illustrious    Paisiello.     The    piece   causes   a 


244  MONDAY-CHATS. 

furore,  and  it  is  thought  that  its  representation  must  be 
forbidden.  Amidst  these  mental  diversions,  and  sports 
with  his  cat  which  furnishes  him  with  a  thousand  occa- 
sions for  philosophic  and  playful  observations,  Galiani 
punctiliously  performs  his  duties  as  a  public  man  and  as 
head  of  a  family.  He  has  three  nieces  whom  he  does 
not  spare  in  his  Correspondence  {Mij  nieces  are  stupid, 
and  a  cat  is  all  the  companij  I  have),  three  nieces  who 
are  demanding  with  a  hue-and-cry  to  be  married,  and  of 
whom  he  is,  as  he  says,  the  jockey.  While  he  seems 
thus  to  be  laughing  at  them,  he  marries  them  in  a  very 
fatherly  way.  Meanwhile  the  poor  abbe  grows  old,  and 
sooner  than  other  persons,  as  if  in  his  case,  owing  to 
his  extreme  vivacity  of  spirit,  everything  was  more  rapid, 
—  as  if  the  scantier  stuff  must  be  more  quickly  consumed. 
He  loses  his  teeth;  he,  the  epicure,  can  no  longer  eat; 
and,— 0  wo  above  all  others!  — he  can  no  longer  talk, 
be  stammers.     "But  imagine  what  that  means,  the   abbe 

dumb ! " 

By  a  contradiction  which  is  not  rare,  this  epicurean,  who 
will  allow  to  men  no  generous  springs  of  action,  and  who 
dissects  and  decomposes  all  that  appear  such,  shows  in  his 
own  affairs  a  noble,  elevated  soul,  and  all  the  pride  of  an 
honorable  man.  The  ministers  are  successively  changed; 
his  fortune,  which  is  good  certainly,  but  not  on  a  level 
with  his  talents,  is  impaired  at  the  same  moment.  What 
matters  it  to  him  that  his  friend  Sambucca  becomes  min- 
ister in  place  of  Tanucci?  "A  minister  is  attached  only 
to  people  who  are  devoted  to  him,  and  I  cannot  devote 
myself  to  any  one;  T  cannot  even  give  myself  to  the 
Devil, — /  am  my  own!'"' 

In  the  same  way  this  man  who  affects  insensibility  ex- 


THE   ABBE   GALIANI.  245 

periences  all  the  inquietudes  of  friendship;  lie  feels  its 
cruel  pains  in  the  losses  which  are  his  lot.  It  is  true 
that  the  number  of  his  genuine  friends,  of  those  to 
whom  he  is  really  attached  and  bound  by  secret  fibres, 
lessens  with  the  3'ears.  Learning  through  Madame  d"Epi- 
nav  the  death  of  one  of  his  Parisian  friends,  the  Mar- 
quis  of  Croismare,  he  is  astonished  that  he  is  affected  less 
than  he  would  have  believed:  "This  phenomenon  has 
astonished  me, —  has  almost  made  me  horrified  at  my- 
self,—  and  I  have  desired  to  investigate  its  cause.  It  is 
not  absence;  it  is  not  that  my  heart  has  changed  or 
hardened;  it  is  because  one  is  attached  to  the  life  of 
another  person  only  in  the  degree  that  he  is  attached  to 
his  own,  and  one  is  attached  to  life  only  in  proportion 
to  the  pleasures  it  yields  him.  I  understand  now  why 
peasants  die  tranquilly,  and  so  stupidly  see  others  die. 
A  man  sent  to  Bicetre,  to  remain  there  forever,  would 
hear  of  all  the  deaths  in  the  universe  without  regi'et."' 
This  theory,  which  is  perhaps  very  true,  is  found  to  be 
at  fault  in  respect  to  him,  as  soon  as  he  is  confronted 
with  a  great  loss,  which  really  takes  hold  of  the  heart:  he 
has  not  yet  reached  the  state  of  insensibility  which  he 
imagines:  "Time,"  he  remarks,  "effaces  the  little  fur- 
rows, but  the  deep  impressions  remain.  I  know  now  who 
are  the  persons  that  interested  me  most  at  Paris;  during 
my  first  3'ears  there  I  did  not  distinguish  them."  The 
day  when  he  loses  Madame  d'Epinay,  on  that  day  only 
does  his  heart  break,  and  his  Parisian  life  close;  Gali- 
ani  the  Parisian  dies  with  her,  Galiani  the  Neapolitan 
continues  to  vegetate.  A  Parisian  woman,  Madame  du 
Bocage,  proposed  to  replace  Madame  d'Epinaj^  as  his  cor- 
respondent, in  order  to  keep  him  apprised  of  things  and 


246  MONDAY-CHATS. 

persons;    he    refuses    this    diversion    and    alleviation,    and 
with  an  accent  which  one  cannot  disregard,  cries: 

"There  is  no  more  happiness  for  me;  I  have  Uved,  I  have 
given  wise  counsels,  I  have  served  the  state  and  my  master,  I 
have  held  the  place  of  father  to  a  numerous  family,  I  have  writ- 
ten to  make  my  feUow-men  happy;  and  now,  at  that  age  when 
friendship  becomes  most  necessary,  I  have  lost  all  my  friends!  I 
have  lost  all!    One  does  not  survive  his  friends." 

Bravo!  amiable  abbe,  it  is  thus  that  you  nobly  dis- 
agree with  your  avowed  principles,  with  your  pretense  of 
dryness,  and  it  is  for  this  that  one  loves  you! 

The  abbe  Galiani  died  according  to  the  forms  and 
the  proprieties  of  his  cloth  and  his  country,  not  without 
having  perpetrated,  even  at  the  last  hour,  some  pleas- 
antry in  the  style  of  Rabelais.  We  might  add  his  name 
to  the  list  of  celebrated  men  who  have  died  jesting.  He 
was  less  than  fifty-nine  years  old  when  he  expired,  Octo- 
ber 30,  1787. 

His  Correspondence  with  Madame  d'Epinay,  his  true 
ground  of  recognition  by  us  to-day,  has  been  published 
in  two  volumes.  In  these  letters  he  speaks  too  much 
of  his  money-matters  and  his  postages.  He  wishes  in- 
cessantly to  appear  amusing,  sparkling,  and  he  is  not 
every  day  in  the  vein:  "I  am  stupid  this  evening.  .  .  . 
I  have  nothing  dt'oll  to  send  you  from  here.  ...  I  am 
not  gay  to-day,  and  my  letter  will  not  be  suitable  to 
repeat."  These  expressions  drop  perpetually  from  his 
pen,  and  hurt  the  naturalness  of  his  letters.  There  are 
days,  we  perceive,  when  he  pinches  himself  to  make  his 
reader  laugh.  Add  to  this  the  inconvenience  of  frequent, 
incredible  indecencies,  even  for  the  age  of  Diderot  and 
Voltaire,  and  which  have  no  precedent  out  of  Rabelais. 
"  Let  us  not  yield  to  the  delicate  people,"  Galiani  used  to 


THE    ABBE    GALIANI.  247 

repeat;   "I  wish  to  be  what  I  am,   I  wish  to  assume  the 
tone  that  pleases  me."     He  used  and  abused  that  license. 

No  one  has  ever  spoken  better  of  France,  no  one  has 
ever  judged  it  better  than  the  abbe  Galiani;  one  should 
hear  him  exi^lain  why  Paris  is  the  capital  of  curiosity; 
how  "at  Paris  there  is  only  V apropos";  how  we  speak  so 
well  of  the  arts  and  everything  else,  while  often  only 
half  succeeding  in  them.  On  the  occasion  of  an  Ex- 
hibition at  the  Louvre,  and  I  know  not  what  criticism 
that  had  been  made  upon  it,  he  said:  "I  remark  that 
the  ruling  character  of  the  French  peeps  out  always. 
They  are  essentially  talkers,  reasoners,  jesters;  a  bad 
picture  brings  forth  a  good  book;  thus  you  will  speak  of 
the  arts  better  than  you  will  ever  practise  them.  It  will 
be  found  at  the  end  of  the  account,  some  ages  hence, 
that  you  will  have  reasoned  the  best,  and  discussed  the 
best,  concerning  that  which  all  the  other  nations  will 
have  done  best.  Cherish  printing,  then;  it  is  your  lot  in 
this  lower  world."  This,  however,  does  not  prevent  him, 
at  another  day,  from  speaking  very  severely  of  the  liberty 
of  the  press  which  M.  Turgot,  it  was  said,  thought  of 
granting  by  an  edict,  and  from  wishing  it  very  much 
restricted,  even  in  the  interest  of  the  French  mind,  which 
has  better  play  and  success  when  under  constraint.  "  There 
are  empires  which  ai'e  handsome  only  in  their  decay,"  he 
again  says  of  us.  Finally  he  understands  us,  he  loves  us, 
he  is  one  of  our  citizens,  and  we  indeed  owe  to  this 
charming  abbe  an  honorable,  choice,  jjurely  delicate 
burial,  urna  brevis,  a  little  elegant  urn,  which  should 
not  be  larger  than  he. 

Upon  it  should  be  engraved,  as  an  emblem,  a  Silenus, 
"a  head  of  Plato,  a  Punchinello,  and  one  of  the  Graces. 


FREDERIC   THE  GREAT. 


THE  works  of  Frederic  have  not  hitherto  obtained  in 
France    the    high    esteem   they    merit.      People   have 
ridiculed   certain  bad  verses  of  that   metromaniac  prince, 
which  are  not  worse,  after  all,  than  many  other  verses  of 
the   same    time    which    passed    for    charming,    and    which 
cannot  be  read  again  to-day;    and  one  has  not   paid  suf- 
ficient   attention  to  the  serious  works  of  the  great   man, 
who  would  not  resemble  other   great  men   if  he  had  not 
really    set    his    seal    to    numerous    pages,    historical    and 
political,  which   he   has  written,    and   which   form    a  vast 
whole.     As  for  the  letters  of  Frederic,  one  has  done  them 
more  justice;    in    reading    in  the   Correspondence  of  Vol- 
taire those  which  the  king  addressed  to  him,  intermingled 
with    those    which    he    received    in    return,    we    find    that 
not  only  do  they  bear  the  comparison  very  well,  but  that, 
while  equal  intellectually,  they  have  also  a  superiority  of 
view  and    of   sense  which  is  due  to  force  of   soul  and  of 
character.     It  is  our  Ijusiness  to-day  to  abandon  the  little 
ideas    of   a   rhetoric   altogether   too    literary,  to  recognize 
the  man  and  the  king  in  the  writer,  and  to  welcome  him 
as  one  of  the  best  historians  we  possess. 

T  say  tve,  for  it  was  in  French  that  Frederic  wrote,  it 
was  in  French  that  he  thought,  it  was  the  French  again 
that  he  had  in  mind  and  whom  he  addressed  in  order  to 
Idb   read,   even  when   he    wrote  down  judgments    and    re- 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  249 

cited  actions  which  were  little  fitted  to  please  them. 
Frederic  is  a  disciple  of  our  good  authors,  and,  in  his- 
tory, he  is  a  pupil,  and  certainly  an  original  and  unique 
pupil,  and  in  passages  a  proficient  pupil,  of  the  historian 
of  the  Age  of  Lewis  XIV. 

The  negligence  and  incorrectness  with  which  the  works 
of  Frederic  were  previously  printed,  had  something  to 
do  with  the  slight  esteem  in  which  those  persons  seemed 
to  hold  them  who  are  not  accustomed  to  judge  for  them- 
selves upon  every  subject.  One  cannot  imagine  to  what 
an  extreme  the  infidelity  and  the  license  of  the  editors 
had  in  this  respect  been  carried.  I  will  cite  but  a  single 
example,  which  has  remained  secret  till  to-day.  In 
France,  in  1759,  during  the  Seven  Years'  War,  one  had 
thought  of  printing  the  works  of  the  Sans-Souci  Philoso- 
pher (that  was  the  title  which  Frederic  had  taken  in  his 
poems  and  his  first  literary  eflForts).  But  M.  de  Choiseul, 
minister,  wrote  at  that  date  to  M.  de  Malesherbes,  di- 
rector of  the  library,  on  the  very  subject  of  this  project, 
and  on  the  request  which  some  Parisian  publishers  had 
made  that  they  might  print  the  Collection  they  had  ob- 
tained of  the  Works  of  Frederic:* 

"Marlt,  Decemher  10. 
"It  is  important,  sir,  that  the  king-'s  minister  should  not  be 
in  any  degree  compromised,  nor  suspected  of  having  tolerated  the 
publication  of  the  Works  of  the  King  of  Prussia.  So,  in  case  that 
M.  Darget  {reader  and  secretary  of  the  King  of  Prussia)  comes 
to  speak  to  me  of  the  matter,  I  shall  earnestly  assure  him  that 
I  have  no  knowledge  of  the  printing,  and  that  I  am  going  to 
get  the  king's  order  to  prevent  its  being  executed  in  France. 
While  I  am  waiting  for  M.  Darget,  I  hope  that  the  publication 
will  be  made,  and  that  all  will  be  said  ..." 

♦This  Collection  had  been  printed  in  Prussia  in  1750  and  in  lTo2;  but 
these  two  first  editions,  which  were  wholly  confidential,  were  limited  to  a 
very  few  copies,  destined  only  for  the  king's  friends. 


250  MONDAY-CHATS. 

The  publication,  at  once  protected  and  clandestine, 
was  then  made;  but  it  is  curious  to  see  how  M.  de 
Choiseul  set  himself  to  falsifying  it,  going  so  far  as  to 
point  out  with  his  own  hand  the  details  of  the  coi'rec- 
tions  and  modifications  to  be  introduced  into  it: 

"It  cannot  be  permitted"  (the  Collection),  he  wrote,  "except 
the  greatest  precautions  be  taken  that  it  may  appear  to  have 
been  printed  in  a  foreign  country,  and  this  consideration  must  not 
be  lost  sight  of  in  requiring  corrections. 

"For  this  reason  I  have  proposed  but  two  sorts  of  corrections; 
one  sort,  those  which  may  be  made  without  one's  perceiving  them 
in  reading  the  text.  As  these  changes  relate  only  to  some  impie- 
ties of  the  most  decided  character,  or  to  strictures  upon  great 
personages,  there  is  no  reason  to  fear  that  the  king  of  Prussia 
will  complain  that  the  text  has  been  altered,  and  the  public  will 
not  be  able  to  discover  it.  But  in  suppressing  passages,  I  have 
carefully  avoided  making  any  substitutions;  that  would  be  a 
censurable  infidelity. 

"The  other  corrections  are  the  suppressing  of  proper  names, 
the  place  of  which  you  will  supply  with  points  or  stars.  This  is 
no  more  what  1  call  an  infidelity,  than  are  the  other  changes. 
It  is,  perhaps,  even  a  regard  for  the  king  of  Prussia." 

One  sees  that  the  minister  who  drove  away  the  Jesuits 
knew  how  to  practice  shuffling  when  necessary,  and 
secretly  to  alter  a  text  while  declaring  that  it  was  not 
an  infidelity.  Later,  in  the  publication  of  the  posthumous 
historic  writings  of  the  king  of  Prussia,  exactness,  for  a 
thousand  reasons,  was  no  better  observed,  and  one  may 
say,  in  considering  the  edition  which  is  published  to-day 
at  Berlin  by  order  of  the  Prussian  government,  and  in 
comparing  it  with  its  predecessors,  that  the  works  of 
Frederic  appear  to-day  for  the  first  time  in  a  text  that 
is  authentic  and  worthy  of  recognition. 

The  edition  undertaken  by  the  Prussian  government, 
and    which  will    comprise    not    less    than    thirty    quarto 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  251 

volumes,  is  monumental.  It  is  thus  that  one  day,  and 
soon,  France  should  publish  the  works  of  Napoleon,  works 
to-day  scattered,  or  collected  without  method  and  without 
order;  not  falsified,  but,  in  general,  printed  almost  as 
negligently  as  have  hitherto  been  those  of  Frederic.  The 
monument  of  Napoleon's  tomb  will  not  be  complete  till 
one  shall  have  added  to  it  the  national  edition  of  his 
works.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Prussian  government  and 
the  reigning  king  have  thought  that  their  honor  was 
concerned  in  publishing  a  complete  collection  of  the 
writings  of  the  man  who  was  altogether  the  greatest  king 
and  the  first  historian  of  his  countiy.  Some  clever  savants 
have  been  charged  with  the  execution  of  this  project;  M. 
Preuss,  historiographer  of  Brandenburg,  is  at  their  head. 
The  historic  portion  of  Frederic's  works  has  justly  had 
precedence  over  the  other  writings;  it  forms  seven  vol- 
umes, of  which  five  are  before  me.  I  have  made  their 
acquaintance,  and  I  have  examined  them  with  all  the 
care  of  which  I  am  capable. 

That  I  may  not  have  to  come  back  to  these  details  of 
editions,  I  may  be  permitted  at  the  outset  to  make  two 
or  three  remarks.  The  text,  typographically,  is  admirable. 
The  titles  are  in  the  highest  taste;  the  portraits  are  fine: 
I  find  nothing  to  disapprove  biit  the  kind  of  vignettes 
which  terminate  the  pages  at  the  ends  of  the  chapters, 
and  which  make  this  royal  volume  resemble  at  times  a 
book  of  illustrations:  these  embellishments,  of  which  the 
subject  is  often  enigmatical,  are  not  in  keeping  with  the 
monumental  gravity  of  the  edition.  As  for  the  text,  I 
have  said  that  it  is  for  the  first  time  exact  and  faithful; 
many  bold  thoughts  have  been  restored,  many  energetic 
and    vivid   phrases    which    the    prudence    or    the  literary 


252  MONDAY-CHATS. 

prudery  of  the  first   editors    had    efi'aced   or   softened.     I 
could  have  wished,  however,  that  one  had  not  pushed  his 
scrupulousness    so    far    as    carefully  to    restore    faults   of 
grammar.     Of  what  use   is  it,  for  example,  to  make  the 
king  say  that  M.  du  Lowendal  was  marched  to  a  certain 
point,  instead  of  saying  that  he  had  marched?     Frederic, 
before  publishing  his  work,  would   have  had  these  trifles 
corrected  by  some   of  his  French  academicians  at  Berlin. 
Another  fault  of  this  edition,   and  a  grave  fault,  is  that 
it  lacks  strategic  maps  and  plans  of  places,  which  renders 
the  reading  of  these  campaigns  tedious  and  sterile  to  the 
majority  of  readers.     Why  not  join  to  these  histories  of 
Frederic  an    atlas  expressly  prepared,   of  the    same    kind 
as  that  which  M.  Thiers  has  executed   for  his  History  of 
Napoleon?     Finally,  if  it  is  permissible  to  enter  into  these 
minutise,  which  do  noi  fail  to  have  their  importance  with 
the  reader,  I  will  complain,  in  the  name  of  France,  that 
there  does   not    exist  in  Paris  a  single   complete   copy  of 
the    volumes    thus    far   published.     The  National  Library 
has  but   five    volumes;    the  Library  of  the  Institute  does 
not  possess  one  of  them.      The  king  of  Prussia,  Avho  dis- 
tributes this  magnificent  edition,  has  forgotten  our  Insti- 
tute of  France  in  his  largesses.     It  is  there  that  the  great 
Frederic  would  have  begun.* 

I  have  said  all  I  wish  touching  these  details,  which 
are  in  some  sort  external,  and  I  come  from  them  to  the 
great  man  whom  one  is  happy  in  being  able  at  length 
to  study  more  closely  and  with  confidence  in  his  suc- 
cessive acts  and  writings.  Frederic,  in  spite  of  the  wrong 
he  has  done  himself  by  some  of  his  rhapsodies  and  speeches, 

*  Along  with  the  great  quarto  edition,  there  is  published  one  of  Pmaller 
size,  for  the  use  of  common  readers;  thin  small  edition,  which  is  sold,  is 
easier  to  And, 


FREDEKIC    THE    GREAT.  253 

by  the  placarded  cynicism  of  his  impieties  and  jeers,  by 
that  versifying  mania  which  always  provokes  a  smile,  is 
a  really  great  man,  one  of  those  rare  geniuses  who  are 
manifestly  born  to  be  the  chiefs  and  leaders  of  the  peo- 
ples. When  we  strip  his  person  of  all  the  anecdotal  droll- 
eries upon  which  the  light-minded  feast,  and  when  we 
go  straight  to  the  man  and  to  the  character,  we  pause 
with  admiration  and  with  respect;  we  recognize  at  the 
first  instant,  and  at  every  stej)  we  take  with  him,  a  supe- 
rior and  a  master,  firm,  sensible,  practical,  active,  and 
indefatigable,  inventive  in  proi^ortion  to  his  necessities, 
penetrating,  never  duped,  deceiving  as  little  as  possible, 
constant  in  all  fortunes,  governing  his  personal  affec- 
tions and  passions  by  patriotic  sentiment  and  zeal  for 
the  greatness  and  advantage  of  his  nation;  enamored  of 
glory,  while  judging  it;  vigilantly  careful  and  jealous  of 
the  amelioration,  honor,  and  well-being  of  the  populations 
which  are  entrusted  to  him,  even  at  the  very  time  when 
he  has  little  esteem  for  men. 

Of  Fi-ederic  as  a  captain,  it  does  not  belong  to  me  to 
judge;  but,  if  I  have  well  understood  the  observations 
which  Napoleon  has  made  on  Frederic's  campaigns,  and 
the  simple  recitals  of  Frederic  himself,  it  seems  to  me 
that  he  was  not  chiefly  a  warrior.  He  has  nothing,  on 
that  side,  very  brilliant  or  fascinating  at  first  view. 
Often  beaten,  often  at  fault,  his  greatness  is  shown  in 
learning  through  trials;  especially  in  repairing  his  faults 
or  those  of  fortune  by  coolness,  tenacity,  and  an  immov- 
able evenness  of  soul.  Whatever  eulogium  good  judges 
may  pass  upon  his  battle  of  Leuthen,  and  on  some  of  his 
great  manoeuvres  and  operations,  they  have  still  more 
criticisms  to  make  on  many  and  many  an  occasion.     "  He 


254  MONDAY-CHATS. 

was  great  especially  in  critical  moments,"  said  Napoleon; 
"it  is  the  finest  eulogium  one  can  pass  upon  his  charac- 
ter." This  moral  character  it  is  which  is  conspicuous  in 
Frederic  as  a  warrior,  and  which  transcends  his  martial 
greatness;  it  was  the  case  of  a  strongly- tempered  soul 
and  a  great  mind  applying  itself  to  war  because  it  must 
do  so,  rather  than  the  case  of  a  born  warrior.  He  had 
neither  the  rapid  and  lightning-like  (foudroyante)  valor 
of  a  Gustavus  Adolphus  or  a  Conde,  nor  that  transcendent 
geometrical  faculty  which  characterized  Napoleon,  and  which 
that  powerful  genius  applied  to  war  with  the  same  ease  and 
the  same  aptitude  that  Monge  applied  it  to  other  objects. 
Endowed  with  a  superior  genius,  with  a  character  and  a 
will  in  unison  with  his  genius,  Frederic  applied  himself  to 
the  military  art  as  he  applied  himself  to  many  other  things, 
and  he  was  not  slow  in  excelling  it,  in  possessing  himself 
of  it,  in  perfecting  his  command  of  its  instruments  arid 
means,  although  it  was  not,  perhaps,  at  first,  a  calling 
for  which  his  genius  fitted  him,  and  he  was  not  in  his 
proper  element. 

Nature  had  made  him,  before  all  things  else,  to  reign, 
to  be  a  king,  with  all  the  functions  which  that  lofty  em- 
ployment demands;  and  war  being  one  of  the  most  indis- 
pensable of  these  functions,  he  devoted  himself  to  it  and 
he  mastered  it.  "  One  must  catch  the  spirit  of  his 
calling,"  he  wrote  in  jest  to  Voltaire,  amid  th6  Seven 
Years'  War.  This  has  the  air  of  a  joke  only,  yet  it  is 
true.  In.  Frederic  the  will  and  the  character  directed  the 
mind  in  everything. 

Generally  one  did  not  perceive  in  any  of  the  qualities 
of  Frederic  that  primal  freshness  which  is  the  brilliant 
sign  of  the  singular  gifts  of  nature  and  of  God.     All,  in 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  255 

him,  seems  the  conquest  of  will  and  deliberation  acting 
upon  a  universal  capacity,  which  they  lead  hither  or 
thither,  according  to  different  exigencies.  He  is  clearly 
the  great  king  of  his  time;  he  has  the  stamp  of  the  age 
of  anah'sis. 

One  has  sought  to  establish  a  contradiction  between  the 
conversations  and  writings  of  Frederic,  as  an  adept  in  phi- 
losophy, and  his  actions  as  king  and  conqueror.  I  do  not 
find  this  contradiction  so  great  as  some  have  wished  to 
make  out.  I  lay  aside  certain  essays  and  certain  sallies  of 
Frederic,  when  very  young  and  prince-royal;  but,  from 
the  very  moment  that  he  understood  his  part  as  king,  I 
find  him  true.  And  I  do  not  see,  for  example,  in  the 
histories  which  he  has  written,  a  single  word  which  he 
has  not  justified  in  his  conduct  and  in  his  life.     He  says: 

"A  prince,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  first  servant  and  the  first 
magistrate  of  the  State;  he  should  account  to  it  for  the  use  which 
he  makes  of  the  imposts.  He  raises  them  that  he  may  be  able 
to  defend  the  State  with  the  troops  he  maintains;  in  order  to  de- 
fend the  dignity  with  which  he  is  clothed,  to  recompense  services 
and  merit,  to  establish  in  some  way  an  equilibrium  between  the 
rich  and  the  debtor  classes,  to  comfort  in  every  way  the  unhappy  of 
every  class,  to  invest  with  magnificence  all  that  interests  the  body 
of  the  State  in  general.  If  the  sovereign  has  an  enlightened  mind 
and  a  heart  that  is  right,  he  will  direct  all  his  expenditures  to  the 
promotion  of  the  pubhc  good  and  the  greatest  advantage  of  the 
people." 

This  is  what  Frederic  almost  always  really  did,  in 
peace  and  in  war,  and  he  varied  from  this  jDolicy  as  little  as 
possible.  After  making  every  deduction  for  his  faults,  for 
his  ambitious  acts,  and  for  his  personal  misdeeds,  the  sum 
and  substance  of  his  policy  remains  still  what  we  have 
just  seen,  and  what  he  has  so  well  described.  To  judge 
him  as  a  politician,  we  must  get  rid  of  the  French  point 


256  MONDAY-CHATS. 

of  view,  of  the  French  illusions,  and  of  what  is  left  to  us 
of  the   atmosphere   of  the  Choiseul  ministry.     Open  once 
more  Frederic's  Memoirs;  in  writing  them  he  never  seeks 
to  varnish  the  truth.     I  know  of  no   man  who,  when  he 
takes  his  pen,   is  less  a  charlatan  than  he;  he  gives  his 
reasons,    without    any    coloring    whatever;    "a    borrowed 
part,"' he  thought,  "is   difficult  to  sustain;   a  person  can 
never  well  be  anybody  but  himself."     In  writing  the  his- 
tory of  his  house  under  the  title  of  Memoirs  of  Branden- 
burg, he   gives  us  the  meaning,  the  first  inspiration,  the 
key  of  bisections.     Prussia  had  not  come  really  to  count 
for  anything  in  the  world,  and  to  put,  as  he  says,  its  grain 
into  the  political  balance  of  Europe,  till  the  time  of  the 
Great   Elector,    which    corresponded   with   the    prosperous 
days  of  Lewis  XIV.     In  reciting  the  history  of  that  clever 
and  brave  sovereign,  who  to  the  mediocre  fortune  of  an 
Elector  knew  how  to  unite  the  heart  and  the  merit  of  a 
great  king,— in  speaking  to  us  of  that  prince,  "the  honor 
and  the  glory  of  his  house,  the  defender  and  the  restorer 
of  his  country,"  who  was  greater  than  his  sphere  of  action, 
and  from  whom  his   posterity  reckon,— Frederic  has  evi- 
dently  found    his    ideal    and   his    model;    what   the  Great 
Elector  was,  as  simply  a  prince  and  member  of  the  Em- 
pire, Frederic  will  be  to  it  as  king. 

This  title,  this  appellation  of  king,  which  was  given 
only  to  the  son  of  the  Great  Elector,  and,  as  it  were,  by 
grace,  appears  rather  to  have  degraded  than  to  have  ex- 
alted the  Prussian  name.  The  first  Frederic  who  bore 
it,  a  slave  to  ceremony  and  etiquette,  had  rendered  the 
title  of  Majesty  almost  ridiculous  in  his  person;  he  was 
crushed  by  it.  That  first  king  of  Prussia,  by  his  entire 
life  of  vain  pomp  and  display,  said,  without  knowing  it, 


FREDERIC   THE   GREAT.  257 

to  his  posterity:  "  I  have  acquired  the  title,  and  I  am 
proud  of  it;  it  is  for  you  to  render  3'ourselves  worthy  of 
it."  The  father  of  Frederic,  of  whom  the  son,  who  was 
so  maltreated  by  him,  has  spoken  so  admirably,  and  with 
sentiments  not  filial,  but  truly  loyal  and  magnanimous, 
—  that  rough,  economical,  avaricious  father,  the  perse- 
cutor of  his  family  and  the  idolater  of  discipline,  that 
praiseworthy  man,  who  ''  had  a  laborious  soul  in  a  ro- 
bust body,"  had  restored  to  the  Prussian  State  the  so- 
lidity which,  through  the  inflation  and  vanity  of  the  first 
king,  it  had  lost.  But  that  was  not  enough;  Fred- 
eric's father,  estimable  as  he  was,  in  many  respects,  when 
closely  viewed,  was  not  respected  at  a  distance;  even  his 
moderation  and  the  simplicity  of  his  manners  had  been 
prejudicial  to  him.  People  regarded  his  twenty-four 
thousand  troops  as  a  parade-show,  and  as  a  corporal's 
grandiose  madness.  Prussia  was  not  counted  among  the 
European  powers,  and  when  Frederic,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-eight  (1740).  mounted  the  throne  which  he  was 
to  occupy  for  forty-six  years,  he  had  everything  to  do  for 
his  own  and  the  nation's  honor;  he  had  to  create  the 
Prussian  honor,  he  had  to  win  his  spurs  as  king. 

His  first  thought  was  that  a  prince  should  make  his 
person,  and  above  all,  his  nation,  respected;  that  moder- 
ation is  a  virtue  which  statesmen  must  not  always  prac- 
tice strictly,  on  account  of  the  corruption  of  the  age,  and 
because,  when  thei-e  is  a  change  of  reign,  it  is  more  expe- 
dient to  give  proofs  of  firmness  than  of  mildness.  He  says 
again,  and  he  tells  us  frankly,  that  "  Frederic  (his  grand- 
father), in  erecting  Prussia  into  a  kingdom,  had,  by  that 
vain  display,  planted  a  germ  of  ambition  in  his  posterity, 

which   would    sooner    or    later    fructify.     The    monarchy 
11* 


258  MONDAY-CHATS. 

which  he  had  left  to  his   descendants   was,   if  I  may  be 
permitted  to   explain   myself  thus    (it  is   always  Frederic 
that  speaks),  a  kind  of  hermaphrodite,  which  partook  more 
of  the  electorate  than  of  the  kingdom.     There  was  glory 
in  deciding  that   condition  of  things;   and  that  sentiment 
was  surely  one  of  those  which  strengthened  the  king  in 
the  great  enterprises  in  which  so  many  motives  engaged 
him."     He  tells  us  these  motives,  and  why  he  anticipated 
the  House  of  Austria,  instead  of  waiting  for  it,  and  let- 
ting himself  be  struck  or  humbled.     He  will  explain  with 
the'' same   clearness   and   the   same  frankness  the  motives 
which   led   him   to    get   the    start   of  his    enemies  at  the 
beginning   of   the   Seven  Years'   War,  and  which  decided 
him  to  appear  the  aggressor  without  being  such.     These 
motives,   all    drawn    from   the   interest   of  his   cause    and 
of  his  nation,  seem  in  no  respect  discordant  with  the  max- 
ims of   Frederic   and  with   his    favorite   ideas  as  philoso- 
pher and  writer.      Knowing  men  and  the   things  of  the 
world,  as   he  did,  he  very  properly  felt  that  one   is  not 
permitted  to  be  a  bit  of  a  philosopher  upon   the  throne 
until  he  has  proved  that  he  knows  how  to  be  something 
else  besides.     He  was  not  in  a  humor  to  play  the  good- 
natured  part  of  a  Stanislaus.     To  be  more  surely  a  shep- 
herd of  his  own   people,  he  began   by  showing  to  other 
peoples  that  he  was  a  lion.     All  that  he  willed,  he  did; 
he,    UAdly   disentangled  the   position  and  the  function  of 
Prussia,  created  a  counter-weight  to  the  House  of  Austria, 
and  established  in  northern  Germany  a  focus  of  civiliza- 
tion, a  centre  of  culture  and  of  toleration.     It  is  for  his 
successors  to  maintain  it,  and  to  be  faithful,  if  they  can, 

to  his  designs. 

All  the  persons  who  have  praised  Frederic,  have  made 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  259 

a  reservation  touching  Poland  and  the  Partition  of  1773, 
which  he  provoked  and  by  which  he  profited.  Here,  as 
the  Polish  question  is  one  of  those  that  cannot  be  treated 
conveniently  and  with  entire  impartiality,  I  will  beg 
leave  to  be  silent.  There  is  in  that  Polish  name,  and  in 
the  misfortunes  which  are  associated  with  it,  a  remnant 
of  magic  which  sets  men  in  a  flame.  Frederic,  however, 
never  changed  his  opinion  regarding  the  character  of  the 
Poles  as  a  people:  that  opinion  is  energetically  expressed 
in  ten  passages  in  his  histories,  and  long  before  the  idea 
of  a  partition  occurred  to  him. 

In  that  afiair,  however,  and  whatever  was  the  fact  re- 
garding_  the  motives  which  he  has  himself  exposed  in  all 
their  nakedness,  he  violated  that  which  the  ancients  called 
the  conscience  of  the  human  race,  and  he  took  part  in  one 
of  those  scandals  which  always  shake  the  confidence  of 
the  peoples  in  the  protective  law  of  societies.  He  forgot 
his  own  maxim:  "The  reputation  of  a  knave  is  as  dis- 
honorable to  the  prince  himself,  as  disadvantageous  to 
his  interests."  But  here  the  considerable  interest  of  the 
moment  and  of  the  future,  the  instinct  of  natural  en- 
largement, won  the  day.  In  that,  again,  he  was  not  so 
inconsistent  as  one  would  believe  him  to  be.  His  deli- 
cacy as  a  philosopher  was  not  such  that  it  could  not  ac- 
commodate itself  to  these  political  procedures.  While  he 
had  sentiments  of  relative  justice  and  even  of  humanity, 
Frederic,  like  all  his  age,  was  absolutely  wanting  in  ide- 
ality; he  did  not  believe  in  anything  that  was  better 
than  himself.  He  governed  and  earnestly  cared  for  the 
men  who  were  entrusted  to  his  keeping;  he  made  this 
duty  a  matter  of  honor  and  dignity;  but  he  did  not  place 
it  upon  any  deeper  foundation.     We  touch  here  upon  the 


260 


MOXDAY-CHATS. 


radical  vice  of  that  wisdom  of  Frederic's,  I  mean  irrever- 
ence, irreligion.  The  cynical  railleries  of  his  conversa- 
tions' and  letters  are  well  known:  he  had  the  capital 
faiTlt,  for  a  king,  of  jesting,  of  jeering  at  everything, 
even  at  God.  The  love  of  glory  was  the  only  thing  about 
which  he  never  jested.* 

Strange   inconsistency  and   protest  of  a   noble  nature!^ 
for   if   the   human    race    is    so    foolish   and  so  worthy  of 
contempt,   and    if  there    is    no  thing  or   person  above  it, 
why  go  and  devote  body  and  soul   to   the  idea  of   glory, 
which  is  nothing  else   than   the   desire  and  expectation  of 
the  highest  esteem  among  men?     It  is  inconceivable  that, 
looking  at   everything,  as  he  did,  from  the  higher  stand- 
point of  the  State  and  the  social  interest,  Frederic  should 
have   regarded    religion   as   one  of  those  neutral   grounds 
where    people    may    meet    for    after-dinner   pastimes   and 
pleasantries.      He  forgot  that  he  himself,  writing  to  Vol- 
taire,   had    said:    "Every  man    has    in    him    a    ferocious 
beast;   few  know  how  to  chain  him;   the  majority  let  him 
loose,    when    fear    of   the    law   does   not   restrain   them." 
His    nephew,   William    of    Brunswick,    permitted   himself 
one  day  to  show  him  the  inconsistency  there  was  in  thus 
relaxing   the   religious   ties   which   restrain   the   ferocious 
beast.      "Oh!    against   the   rascals,"    replied   Frederic,  "I 
have  the  hangman,  and  that  is  quite  enough."     No,  that 
is  not  enough;    when    one   has   the    hangman   only,    it   is 
insufficient.     It  is  at  this  point  especially  that  the  estab- 

*  One  of  the  most  competent  judges,  one  of  the  assistants  of  M.  Preuss 
in  the  preparation  of  the  works  of  Frederic,  M.  Charles  de  La  llarpe,  writes 
to  me  in  regard  to  this  subject:  -There  are  two  other  things  also  concern- 
ing  which  he  never  jested,  the  love  of  country  iini /rlend-^hip.  This  mocking 
hero  is  the  tenderest  and  most  faithful  of  friends,  and  one  knows  that  his 
passion  for  his  country  was  such  that  he  deprived  himself  of  everything  that 
he  inicrht  be  able  to  alleviate  its  miseriea  and  endow  Prussia  with  useful 
inblitulioub." 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  261 

lishment  of  Frederic  fails  and  is  imperilled;  he  could  be 
a  great  organizer,  he  was  not  a  legislator. 

But,  even  setting  aside  the  sovereign's  interest,  it  is 
offensive  to  see  a  great  man  sulh'  his  name  by  pleasantries 
of  this  kind  regarding  objects  which  are  respectable  in 
the  eyes  of  the  great  majority;  it  was,  to  a  certain  de- 
gree, a  violation  of  the  hospitable  toleration  in  which  he 
gloried,  thus  openly  to  despise  that  which  he  professed  to 
welcome  and  tolerate.  It  betrays  a  relic  of  native  bad 
taste  and  of  northern  coarseness,  and  one  could  say  with 
just  severity  of  the  letters  of  Frederic:  "There  are  vig- 
orous and  great  thoughts,  but,  close  by  them,  we  see 
beer  and  tobacco  stains  upon  these  pages  of  Marcus 
Aurelius."  Frederic,  who  had  respect  for  heroes  at  least, 
has  said:  "Since  pious  ^neas  and  the  crusades  of  Saint- 
Louis,  we  have  seen  no  example  in  history  of  devout 
hei'oes."  Devout,  it  is  possible,  taking  the  word  strictly; 
but  religious,  one  may  say  that  heroes  have  almost 
always  been;  and  John  Muller,  the  illustrious  historian, 
who  so  well  appreciated  the  merits  and  great  qualities  of 
Frederic,  was  right  in  his  conclusion  concei'ning  him, 
when  he  wrote:  "Frederic  wanted  only  the  highest  de- 
gree of  culture,  religion,  which  completes  humanity,  and 
humanizes  all  greatness."  * 

I  will  say  no  more  of  Frederic  to-day,  except  as  a  his- 
torian. His  histories  are  composed  of  Memoirs  of  Bran- 
denburg, which   contain  all  that  we  need  to  know  of  the 

*  M.  Henry,  pastor  of  the  French  church  at  Berlin,  has  written  a  disser. 
tation  in  which  he  treats  of  Frederic's  irreligion;  without  pretending  to  ab- 
solve him  in  this  mattCi-,  the  worthy  writer  believes  that  there  has  been  a 
great  deal  of  exaggeration  of  that  French  Bide  of  Frederic,  by  which  he 
tlattered  the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  seeks  to  show  that 
Frederic  himself,  with  a  kind  of  swagger,  took  pleasure  in  exaggerating  it. 
M.  Henry  thinks  that  this  irreligioub  mockery  of  Frederic  transpired  chiefly 


262 


MOI^^DAY-CHATS. 


Prussian  annals  anterior  to  his  accession;  and  four  other 
works,  which  contain  the  history  of  his  time  and  of   his 
reign  from  1740  to  1778.     The  history  of  the  Seven  Years' 
Wrr  is  one  of  these  four  compositions,  and  that  by  which 
he  naturally  takes  a  place  between  Napoleon  and  Casar. 
The  Memoirs  of  BrandenUirg  are  the  only  portion  which 
appeared  in  his  life-time.      From  the  preface  it  is  plain 
that  we  have  to  do  with  a  lofty  and  firm  spirit,  that  has 
the  noblest  and  soundest  ideas  upon  the  class  of  subjects 
he  handles.      "A  man,"  he   says,  "  who  does   not   believe 
that  he  has    fallen    from   heaven,  who  does   not  date  the 
world's  epoch  from  the  day  when  he  was  born,  must  be 
curious  to  know  what  has  passed  in  all  times  and  m  all 
countries."      Every  man  must,  at  least,  care  for  what  has 
passed  before  his  time  in  the  country  which  he  inhabits. 
In  order  that    this    knowledge    may  be    really  profitable, 
one  condition  is  indispensable,- truth.    Frederic  wishes  for 
truth  in   history:  "a  work  written  without  freedom  can 
be  only  mediocre  or  bad."     He  will  speak  the  truth,  then, 
about  persons,  about  another's  ancestors  as  about  his  own. 
But   he   believes   that   he    should    record,  touching    every 
matter,   only  that  which   is    memorable    and  useful.      He 
gives  no  heed  to  curiosities.     He  leaves  to  the  professors 
in  us,  fascinated  with  learned  minutis,  to  know  of  what 
stuff  was   the  coat  of  Albert   surnamed   AcMlUs.      He  is 
firmly  of   opinion    that    a    thing   does    not    deserve  to  be 
written    except   so   far   as  it  deserves    to  be  remembered. 

on  m  surface  of  his  bouI;  that,  In  yielding  himself  to  it,  he  y;eld<;;/;;;;;«y 
to  a  ba^  tone  of  society,  thinking  that  it  would  never  '^"-"^^''^^J.  ^  ^^^^^ 
knowledcre,  but  that  the  basis  of  his  royal  nature  was  senous.  .'nedUative 
and  trWy  of  a  legislator  who   comprehends   -'d   would    prone  he 

fnndamental  needs  of  every  society  and  of  every  nat.on.  In  -^^^^  "P'f^^^;"^ 
i,.paruul  appreciation  of  Frederic,  it  is  well  to  take  l^'l'' '^ ^^f^^, 
which  M.  Uenry  calla  attention,  and  of  the  point  of  view  to  which  he  refers 


them. 


FREDEKIC   THE    GREAT.  263 

He  runs  rapidly  over  the  barbarous  and  sterile  times, 
and  over  those  of  liis  ancestors  of  whom  one  knows  only 
the  names  or  some  insignificant  dates.  "  It  is  with  his- 
tories,"  he  says,  "  as  with  rivers,  which  become  important 
only  at  the  place  where  they  begin  to  be  navigable." 
He  chooses  the  French  in  preference  to  every  other  lan- 
guage, because  it  is,  he  says,  "  the  most  polished  and  the 
most  widely-diffused  language  of  Europe,  and  because  it 
appears  in  some  way  to  have  been  fixed  by  the  good 
authors  of  the  age  of  Lewis  XIV."  He  might  have 
added,  because  it  is  the  fittest  to  express  the  thoughts  of 
a  clear-headed,  bold,  sensible,  and  resolute  genius. 

All  the  little  biographies  of  the  primitive  Electors,  of 
whom  there  is  nothing  great  to  be  said,  are  sketched 
with  sobriety  and  with  a  severe  taste.  A  few  sarcasms 
thrown  out  by  the  way,  some  philosophical  sallies,  mark 
the  pupil  of  Voltaire;  but  these  pleasantries  are  hasty 
ones,  and  do  not  here  derogate  from  the  general  tone. 
That  tone  is  simple  and  manly,  and  the  narration  is  en- 
riched with  curious  but  forcible  reflections,  which  reveal 
the  chain  of  causes.  When  he  comes  to  the  epochs  of  the 
Eeformation  and  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  the  historian-king 
characterizes  those  great  events  in  a  few  words,  by  their 
general  traits  and  in  their  real  principles;  he  never  fails 
to  distinguish  the  essential  things  from  the  accessories. 
When  he  recounts  the  horrors  and  the  devastations  which 
signalized  those  sad  periods  of  history,  he  shows  sentiments 
of  humanity  and  order,  sentiments  of  good  administration 
which  are  perfectly  unaffected,  and  which  he  will  justify. 
I  have  said  that  the  type  which  he  proposes  for  imitation, 
the  man  from  whom  he  justly  dates  the  greatness  of  his 
house,   is    Frederic- William,   called    the  Great   Elector,  he 


264 


MONDAY-CHATS. 


Who  began  to  rule   Brandenburg   at  the  end  of  that  dis- 
astrous Thirty  Years'  War  "which  had  made  of  the  Elec- 
torate   a    frightful    desert,    in    which    one    recognized    the 
villages  only  by  the  heaps   of  ashes  which  prevented  the 
arass    from    growing    in    them."      He  enlarges  upon  this 
1e\an  with  complacency,   he  goes   so  far  even  as  to  dare 
establish  a   parallel   between    that   little   northern   prince 
and  Lewis  XIV  in  his  glory:  saving  two  or  three  passages, 
which  are  a  little  flowery  and  too  mythological,  saving  a 
sliaht  oratorical  accent  which  betrays  itself  here  and  there, 
thfs  comparison  forms  a  fine  page  of  history,  and  one  that 
is  really  noble  in  tone.      It  is  to  be  noted  that  Frederic, 
in  writing,  while  he  is  severe  in  style,  is  less  sober  than 
tear  and  even  than    Napoleon;   he    does    not  refuse  the 
use  of  art,  especially  in  that  first  history  of  which  Gibbon 
could  say  that  it  was  ivell  written.      Having  to  narrate  the 
campaign  of   1679.   in  which  the  Great  Elector,  in    mid- 
winter, drove  out  the  Swiss,  who  had  invaded  Prussia,  he 
will  say:  "The  retreat  resembled  a  rout;  of  sixteen  thou- 
sand Swedes,  which  they  numbered,  hardly  three  thousand 
returned  to  Livonia.     They  had  entered  Prussia  like  Ro- 
mans; they  left  it  like  Tartars." 

He  has  sayings  which  sum  up  a  complete  judgment 
upon  men  and  upon  nations.  In  the  portraits  of  his 
grandfather,  the  first  Frederic,  son  of  the  Great  Elector, 
who  was  so  little  like  his  father,  he  will  say  to  mark  the 
pomp  of  that  king,  who  had  no  le^s  than  a  hundred 
chamberlains:  "His  ambassadors  were  as  magnificent  as 
those  of  the  Portuguese:' 

His  judgments  of  men  are  profound  and  decisive,  lo 
heroes  he  has  a  visible  attraction;  he  speaks  only  with 
respect,    and  with  a  deep   fraternal   instinct,   of  the  Gus- 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  265 

tavus-Adolphuses,  of  the  Marlboroughs,  of  the  Eugenes; 
but  he  is  not  deceived  in  regard  to  greatness,  and  does 
not  waste  words  upon  it:  queen  Christiana  and  her 
capricious  abdication  api^ear  to  him  only  whimsical;  the 
duel  between  Charles  XII  and  Peter  the  Great  at  Pultowa 
appears  to  him  a  duel  of  two  of  the  most  singular  men 
of  their  century.  Foi'eigner  though  he  is,  he  knows  how 
to  choose  his  expressions  like  a  just  mind  that  fits  or 
bends  language  to  its  thought.  Of  that  same  Peter  the 
Great  he  will  say  elsewhere  with  energy :  "  Peter  I,  to 
govern  his  nation,  worked  upon  it  like  aquafortis  upon 
iron." 

For  painting  statesmen  and  ministers  he  has  those 
well-chosen  and  authoritative'  words  which  are  historical 
in  advance,  and  which  grave  themselves  on  the  memory. 
Wishins:  to  characterize  the  too  vast  and  too  restless 
genius  of  cardinal  Alberoni,  and  his  too  fiery  imagina- 
tion, he  says:  "If  one  had  given  Alberoni  two  worlds 
like  ours  to  turn  topsy-turvy,  he  would  still  have  de- 
manded a  third."  The  portraits  of  the  eminent  persons 
whom  he  knew  and  managed,  are  thrown  off  with  the 
hand  of  a  master,  and,  as  it  were,  by  a  man  who  was 
clever  at  this  business,  and  endowed  with  a  natural  apti- 
tude for  seizing  upon  vices  or  ridiculous  traits.  To  give 
an  idea  of  general  Seckendorff,  who  served  at  the  same 
time  both  the  Emperor  and  Saxony,  he  says:  "He  was 
sordid-minded;  his  manners  were  coarse  and  rustic;  lying 
was  so  habitual  to  him,  that  he  had  lost  the  use  of 
truth.*  It  was  the  soul  of  a  usurer,  which  passed  some- 
times into  the  body  of  a  soldier,  and  sometimes  into  that 

♦This  trait  recalls  the  portrait  which  Xenophon,  in  his  lietreat  of  the 
Ten  Thousand,  has  traced  of  Meno,  who  had  come,  in  the  way  of  Ij'ing,  even 
to  look  upon  truthful  persons  as  ill-bred  persons,  without  education. 


266 


MONDAY-CHATS. 


of  a  negotiator."  And  observe  that  all  this  is  not  after 
the  portrait  style,  as  in  histories  more  or  less  literary, 
where  the  historian  stations  himself  before  his  model:  it 
is  said  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  as  if  by  a  business 
man  who  thinks  aloud  and  talks. 

When    he    enters    upon    the    affairs  of   his    own    time, 
those  which  he  has  directed  and  in  which  he  has  cooper- 
ated, Frederic  keeps  the   same   tone,   or  rather  he  speaks 
with   even  more  simplicity  than  in  his  History  of  Bran- 
denburg.    In  speaking   of  himself,  he  is  neither  haughty 
nor  modest;  he  is  true.     In  speaking    of   others,  even  of 
his  greatest  enemies,  he  is  just.     At  the  beginning  of  his 
reign,  narrating   that    conquest    of   Silesia   which    roused 
the    anger    of   so   many  persons,    and  which  succeeded  at 
once  to°his  wishes,  he  discloses  his    motives    nakedly;   he 
indicates  his  faults  and  his  schools  in  war.     Along   with 
measures  and  calculations  dictated  by  a  far-sighted  bold- 
ness, he   recognizes  what    he    owes    to  "opportunity,  that 
mother  of  great  events,"  and  he  is  careful  to  make  allow- 
ance in  every  affair  for  the  part  which  fortune  plays: 

•'That  which  contributed  the  most  to  that  conquest,"  says  he, 
"was  an  army  which  had  been  fonned  during  twenty-two  years 
by  an  admirable  discipline,  and  which  was  superior  to  the  rest 
of  the  soldiery  of  Europe  (note  the  homage  to  his  father);  some 
true  citizen  generals,  some  wise  and  incorruptible  ministers;  and 
finally  a  certain  good  fortune  tvhich  often  tvaits  upon  youth  and 
denies  itself  to  advanced  age.  If  that  great  enterprise  had  failed, 
the  king  would  have  passed  for  a  rash  prince,  who  had  under- 
taken what  he  had  not  strength  to  accomplish;  success  caused 
him  to  be  regarded  as  clever  as  well  as  lucky.  Really  it  is  only 
fortune  which  determines  reputation;  he  whom  she  favors  is 
applauded;  he  whom  she  disdains  is  blamed." 

The  History  of  the  Seven  Years'  War  is  admirable  for 
its  simplicity  and  truth.     The  author  does  not  limit  him- 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  267 

self  to  strategic  operations, —  he  depicts  the  Courts  of  Eu- 
rope during  that  time.  In  reciting  the  events  of  the  war, 
he  is  sober,  rapid,  not  entering  into  personal  details,  ex- 
cept in  a  few  cases,  where  he  cannot  help  paying  a  tribute 
of  gratitude  to  his  brave  troops  or  to  some  valiant  com- 
panion in  arms.  I  recommend  the  reading  of  the  sixth 
chapter,  which  treats  of  the  campaign  of  1757,  that  cam- 
paign so  full  of  vicissitudes  and  reverses,  in  which  Fred- 
eric, reduced  to  despair,  won  his  easy  and  brilliant  victory 
of  Rossbach,  and  his  masterly  and  ckissic  victory  of  Leuth- 
en.  If  we  join  to  this  narrative,  so  noble  and  so  simple, 
the  letters  which  he  wrote  to  Voltaire  during  the  same 
period,  we  shall  see  Frederic  at  the  most  brilliant  time,  at 
the  crisis  from  which  he  came  forth  with  the  most  heroic 
and  glorious  perseverance.  It  is  here  that  we  truly  rec- 
ognize the  philosopher  and  the  stoic  in  the  warrior.  The 
gravest  reproach  which  he  makes  against  the  Austrian 
Court  is  that  ""it  follows  the  brute  instincts  of  nature; 
puffed  up  in  prosperity  and  cringing  in  adversity,  it  never 
has  been  able  to  attain  to  that  wise  moderation  which  ren- 
ders men  impassive  to  the  blessings  and  the  ills  which 
chance  dispenses."  For  himself,  he  is  resolved,  in  the 
greatest  exti'emities,  never  to  yield  to  chance  or  to  brute 
nature,  but  to  persevere  so  well  in  the  path  of  great  souls 
that  he  will  finally  make  Fortune  blush  with  shame. 

On  coming  out  of  this  war,  in  which  so  much  blood 
was  spilled,  and  after  which  everything  was  placed  upon 
its  former  footing,  saving  the  devastations  and  the  ruins, 
Frederic  loves  to  dwell  upon  the  futility  and  emptiness 
of  human  schemes:  "Does  it  not  seem  astonishing,"  he 
says,  "  that  all  that  is  most  refined  in  human  prudence, 
joined  to  force,  is  often  the  dupe  of  unexpected  events  or 


268  MONDAY-CHATS. 

of  sudden  chances?  and  is  it  not  plain  that  there  is  a 
certain  /  know  not  ivhat,  which  sports  contemptuously 
with  the  projects  of  men?"  One  recognizes  here  a  recol- 
lection of  Lucretius  in  some  of  his  finest  verses:  Usque 
adeo  res  humanas  vis  abdita  quondam.  .  .  .  Napoleon,  un- 
dertaking the  campaign  of  1812,  wrote  to  the  Emperor 
Alexander:  "I  understood  that  its  lot  was  cast,  and  that 
that  invisible  Providence,  whose  rights  and  empire  I  rec- 
ognize, had  decided  upon  this  matter  as  upon  so  many 
others."  It  is  the  same  thought;  but  there  is  in  Napo- 
leon's reflection  a  flash  more  of  inspiration,  there  is,  so  to 
speak,  a  mysterious  reflection  brought  back  from  Tabor, 
which  the  thought  of  Frederic  lacks.  That  accomplished 
king  needed  to  mount  one  step  more  upon  the  height  to 
receive  on  his  brow  the  ray  that  gilds  and  that  also  which 

dazzles. 

Frederic,  nevertheless,  reads  the  human  heart  rightly, 
and  shows  himself  to  be  a  just  moral  observer  and  a  prac- 
tical prophet  when  he  adds: 

"Time,  which  heals  and  eifaces  all  ills,  will  soon,  no  doubt, 
give  back  to  the  Prussians  their  abundance,  their  prosperity  and 
their  first  splendor;  the  other  powers  will  likewise  reestablish 
themselves;  then  other  ambitious  men  will  stir  up  new  wars, 
and  cause  new  disasters;  for  that  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  human 
mind,  that  examples  correct  nobody;  the  follies  of  fathers  are  lost 
upon  their  children;  every  generation  must  commit  its  own." 

Perhaps  at  another  day  I  shall  speak  of  Frederic  as  a 
dilettante,  a  lover  of  the  Fine  Arts  and  of  Belles-Lettres. 
I  have  also  some  unpublished  details  thereupon,  which,  on 
occasion,  will  serve  me  as  a  pretext. 
December  3,  1850. 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  269 


II. 


I  HATE  tried  in  the  preceding  essay  to  set  forth  Frederic, 
as  king  and  politician,  in  his  highest  and  truest  character, 

—  the  historic,  not  the  anecdotal  Frederic.  It  is  thus  that 
he  himself  thought  that  great  men  should  be  finally 
judged, —  without  amusing  ourselves  with  the  accessories, 

—  by  rising  to  the  point  which  governs  their  contradictions 
and  their  caprices.  The  inner  and  private  life  of  Fred- 
eric, however,  is  fully  known;  every  part  of  his  character 
has  been  revealed;  we  have  his  letters,  his  verses,  his 
pamphlets,  his  whims  and  facetiae,  his  secret  disclosures 
of  every  kind ;  he  did  nothing  to  suppress  them,  and  it  is 
impossible  not  to  recognize  in  him  another  very  essential 
person,  which  is  at  the  man's  very  heart.  One  may  say 
that  if,  in  Frederic,  the  great  king  was  duplicated  by  a 
philosopher,  he  was  also  complicated  with  a  man  of  letters. 

The  great  cardinal  Richelieu  was  so  too;  to  have  com- 
posed a  fine  tragedy  would  have  been  a  thing  almost  as 
sweet  to  his  heart,  and  would  have  appeared  to  him  a  work 
almost  as  glorious,  as  to  triumph  over  the  Spaniards,  and 
to  maintain  the  allies  of  France  in  Germany ;  the  laurels 
of  the  Cid  would  not  let  him  sleep.  At  the  close  of  the 
Seven  Years'  War,  when  D'Alembert  went  to  visit  Fred- 
eric at  Potsdam,  and  spoke  to  him  of  his  glory, — "  He  told 
me  with  the  greatest  simplicity,"  writes  D'Alembert," that 
there  was  a  fearful  deduction  to  be  made  from  that  glory; 
that  chance  counted  in  it  almost  for  all;  and  that  he 
would  much  rather  have  composed  Afhalie  than  have  waged 
all  that  war."  There  is  certainly  something  of  the  philos- 
opher in  this  way  of  judging  military  triumphs;  but  there 


270  MONDAY-CHATS. 

is  always  something  of  the  man  of  letters  in  the  prefer- 
ence thus  given  to  Athalie.  I  know  not  whether  Fred- 
eric would  not  have  contradicted  himself,  in  case  an  evil 
genius  had  taken  him  at  his  word,  and  he  had  really  had 
to  choose  between  the  Seven  Years'  War  and  Athalie;  or 
rather  I  am  very  sure  that  the  king,  in  the  end,  would 
have  won  the  day;  but  the  poet's  heart  would  have  bled 
within  him,  and  it  suffices  for  us,  to  qualify  him  as  we  do, 
that  he  could  have  hesitated  for  a  single  instant. 

When  we  study  Frederic  in  his  writings,  in  his  Corre- 
spondence, especially  that  which  he  had  with  Voltaire,  we 
recognize,  it  seems  to  me,  an  evident  fact:  there  was  a 
man  of  letters  preexisting  in  him  before  all,  before  even 
the  king.  What  he  was  before  everything  else,  naturally, 
and  so  to  speak,  most  unaffectedly  and  primitively,  was 
still  a  man  of  letters,  a  dilettante,  a  virtuoso,  with  a  lively 
taste  for  the  arts,  with  especially  a  passionate  worship  of 
genius.  He  had  only  to  abandon  himself  to  his  inclina- 
tions to  overflow  in  that  direction.  His  position  as  king, 
his  love  of  honorable  glory,  and  the  great  capacity  with 
which  he  was  endowed,  directed  him  to  other  employ- 
ments, which  had  for  their  aim  social  utility  and  the 
greatness  of  the  nation:  he  thought  that  "a  good  mind 
is  susceptible  of  all  sorts  of  forms,  and  that  it  brings  the 
proper  aptitudes  to  everything  it  would  undertake.  It 
is  like  a  Proteus  which  changes  its  form  without  difficult;/, 
and  which  appears  really  to  he  the  object  it  represents^ 
Thus  he  appeared  to  have  been  born  for  everything  he 
had  to  do  as  king;  he  was  up  to  the  height  of  his  task. 
"The  strength  of  States,"  he  thought,  "consists  in  the 
great  men  to  whom  nature  seasonably  gives  birth  in 
them."     He  wished  to  be  and  he  was  one  of  those  great 


FEEDERIC   THE    GREAT.  271 

men;  lie  worthily  fulfilled  his  function  as  a  hero.  The 
nation  which  the  Great  Elector  had  sketched  before  him, 
he  formed  and  completed  by  giving  it  a  body  and  by  im- 
pressing it  with  unity  of  spirit ;  Prussia  did  not  really  exist 
till  it  went  out  from  his  hands.  Such  is  the  part  of  the 
great  Frederic  in  history;  but,  at  heart,  his  secret  or  even 
slightly  secret  tastes,  his  real  delights,  were  to  reason  upon 
every  subject,  to  follow  out  his  thoughts  as  a  philosopher, 
and  also  to  cast  them  upon  paper,  whether  seriously  or  in 
jest,  as  a  rhymer  and  a  writer. 

He  had  been  educated  by  a  Frenchman  named  Du- 
han,  a  man  of  merit,  who  had  inspired  him  with  love  for 
our  language  and  literature.  He  had  been  initiated, 
after  a  kind  of  tradition  which  was  yet  correct  enough, 
by  the  French  refugees  in  Berlin.  That  desire  of  glory 
which  nourished  the  young  soul  of  Frederic,  and  which 
sought  also  its  object,  made  him  naturally  turn  his  eyes 
toward  France.  The  age  of  Lewis  XIV,  now  completed, 
gradually  extended  its  influence  over  all  Europe.  Bran- 
denburg was  slower  than  the  other  nations;  there  was 
nothing  astonishing  in  that;  but  Fredex-ic  felt  humiliated 
by  it,  and  he  believed  that  it  was  for  him  to  inaugurate 
that  new  era  of  Renaissance  in  the  North.  While  his 
father  lived,  this  purely  literary  desire  of  Frederic  pre- 
vailed over  his  other  thousrhts,  and  eneraged  him  in  some 
proceedings,  some  advances,  in  which  the  future  king 
forgot  himself  a  little.  He  was  prince-royal  and  twenty- 
four  years  old  when  he  began  the  Correspondence  with 
Voltaire  (1736).  Voltaire  was  living  then  at  Cirey,  with 
Madame  du  Chatelet.  He  received  from  the  young 
prince  of  Prussia,  not  a  complimentary  letter,  but  a  real 
passionate  declaration.     One  may  smile  to-day  at  that  first 


272  MONDAY-CHATS. 

letter,  so  awkward,  and  more  than  half  Teutonic,  in 
■which  Frederic  mingles  his  admiration  for  Wolff  with  his 
admiration  for  Voltaire,  and  in  which  he  speaks  to  the 
latter  in  the  name  of  human  kindness,  and  talks  of  the 
''support  which  you  offer,'''  says  he,  "  ^o  all  those  tvho 
devote  themselves  fo  the  arts  and  scietices.''  Through  this 
singular  style  of  Frederic's  first  letters  the  noblest  thought 
finds  its  way.  Looking  at  Voltaire  from  afar,  and  judging 
of  him  by  his  works  alone,  embracing  him  with  that 
youthful  enthusiasm  which  it  is  honorable  to  have  felt  at 
least  once  in  one's  life,  Frederic  proclaims  him  the  only 
heir  of  the  great  age  which  has  just  ended,  "  the  greatest 
man  in  France,  and  a  mortal  who  does  honor  to  speech." 
He  admires  him  and  salutes  him,  as  Vauvenargues  will 
soon  likewise  salute  him,  without  getting  a  glimpse  of 
the  faults  of  the  man,  simply  on  account  of  the  beauties 
of  his  mind  and  the  graces  of  his  language.  He  de- 
clares himself,  consequently,  to  be  his  disciple,  his  disciple 
not  only  in  his  writings  but  in  his  actions;  for,  deceived 
by  the  distance  and  by  the  gilded  mists  of  youth,  he 
sees  in  him  almost  a  Lycurgus  or  a  Solon,  a  legislator 
and  a  sage. 

Do  not,  however,  be  too  ready  to  smile  at  this.  Never 
has  one  more  clearly  perceived  than  that  young  prince 
what  literature  might  be  in  its  highest  inspiration,  how 
much  it  contains  that  is  elevated  and  useful,  and  how 
much  of  its  glory  is  durable  and  immortal.  "  I  count  it 
as  one  of  the  greatest  blessings  of  my  life  that  I  was 
born  a  contemporary  of  a  man  who  has  so  distinguished 
a  merit  as  yours."  This  sentiment  breaks  out  in  all  this 
phase  of  the  Correspondence.  Voltaire  is  charmed,  Vol- 
taire is  complimentary;  he  thanks,  he  praises,  he  enchants; 


FREDEKIC    THE    GREAT.  273 

we  should  not  say  truly  that  he  is  secretly  laughing,  and 
doubtless  he  did  not  then  laugh  much,  at  certain  sole- 
cisms and  swelling  tones  which  often  accompanied  these 
northern  praises.  According  to  him  that  young  prince 
makes  verses  like  Catullus  in  the  time  of  Ccesar;  he  plays 
upon  the  flute  like  Telemachus ;  he  is  Augustus- Frederic 
Virgil.  Enough,  replies  Frederic,  who  has  the  advantage 
here  in  respect  to  good  sense  and  good  taste,  morally 
speaking:  "I  am,  I  assure  you,  neither  a  species  of  great 
man  nor  a  candidate  for  greatness.  I  am  but  a  simple 
individual  who  is  known  only  to  a  small  part  of  the 
continent,  and  whose  name,  according  to  all  appearances, 
will  serve  only  to  decorate  some  genealogical  tree,  to  fall 
afterward  into  obscurity  and  oblivion."  Such  is  his  self- 
judgment,  and  he  was  right  at  that  date;  this  man  of 
twenty-five  feels  that  he  is  nothing  yet,  and  that  he  has 
not  even  made  a  beginning.  "  When  persons  of  a  certain 
rank,"  he  remarks,  "complete  half  of  a  career,  people 
award  them  the  prize  which  others  do  not  receive  till 
they  have  finished  it."  He  is  indignant  at  this  difference 
in  standards,  as  if  one  deemed  princes  to  be  of  an  inferior 
nature  to  other  men,  and  less  capable  of  an  entire  action. 
One  day  Voltaire  has  the  impudence  to  say  to  him  that 
he,  Frederic,  writes  better  French  than  Lewis  XIV,  that 
Lewis  XIV  was  ignorant  of  orthography,  and  other 
wretched  things  of  that  kind;  as  if  Lewis  XIV  was  not 
one  of  the  men  in  his  kingdom  who  spoke  the  best,  and 
as  if  one  of  the  greatest  praises  that  could  be  given  to 
that  excellent  writer,  Pellisson,  was  not  his  having  been 
on  more  than  one  occasion  the  worthy  Secretary  of  Lewis 
XIV.  Here,  again,  Frederic  checks  Voltaire,  and  gives 
him  a  lesson  in  tact:  "Lewis  XIV,"  says  he,  "  was  a  prince 


274  MONDAY-CHATS. 

great  in  an  infinity  of  ways;  a  solecism,  an  orthographical 
error,  could  not  sully  in  the  least  his  reputation,  estab- 
lished by  so  many  deeds  which  have  immortalized  him. 
He  had  the  right  in  every  sense  to  say:  Ccesar  est  supra 
grammaticam.  I  am  not  great  in  any  way.  It  is  only 
my  application  which  may  one  day,  perhaps,  make  me 
useful  to  my  country;  and  that  is  all  the  glory  to  which 
I  aspire."  One  loves  to  meet,  amid  the  insipidities  and 
occasional  ridiculous  extravagances  in  this  beginning  of 
the  Correspondence,  more  than  one  of  these  passages  in 
which  the  future  king  already  peeps  out,— the  superior 
man,  who,  although  he  has  the  rage  for  rhyming  and  for 
producing  his  first  works,  will  know  how  to  triumph  over 
it  by  a  higher  passion,  and  who  will  never  be  a  rheto- 
rician on  the  throne.  In  everything,  even  in  these  plays 
of  the  mind,  Frederic  always  ends  by  laying  the  greatest 
stress  on  action,  on  social  utility,  and  the  country's  good; 
he  is  a  genius  who  amuses  himself  while  waiting  for 
something  better,  who  will  continue  to  amuse  himself 
and  to  make  merry  in  the  intervals  of  the  roughest  toils, 
but  who  will  always  aspire,  by  force  of  a  firm  will,  to 
reach  a  practical  and  useful  greatness.  There  is  a  time 
for  him  to  laugh,  to  play  the  flute,  to  make  verses,  and  a 
time  to  reign.  The  man  of  letters  may  sometimes  balance 
the  king,  and  frolic  before  him,  but  it  is  only  to  give  way 
to  him,  when  it  is  necessary,  at  the  precise  hour.  One  may 
say  of  him  that  never  did  one  of  his  talents,  never  did 
one  of  his  passions  or  even  of  his  manias,  interfere  with 
one  of  his  duties. 

Considered  as  matters  of  taste,  there  were  many  things 
to  be  noticed.  The  rude  and  slightly  coarse  nature  of 
the  Vandal  betrayed  itself  in   Frederic  even  athwart  the 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  275 

intellectual  man  and  the  dilettante  eager  to  learn  and 
to  please.  It  is  not  merely  language  and  expression 
which  fail  him  here  and  refuse  to  obey;  it  is  often  deli- 
cate tact  which  is  wanting.  Every  time  he  speaks  to 
Voltaire  of  Madame  du  Chatelet,  he  finds  it  very  hard  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous:  "I  respect  the  ties  of  friendship 
too  much,"  he  writes  to  Cirey,  "  to  wish  to  tear  you  awatj 
from  the  arms  of  Emihj.'''  When  he  wishes  to  be  polite, 
it  is  with  this  levity.  Frederic  can  think  of  nothing  more 
graceful  than  to  send  as  a  present  to  Voltaire  a  bust  of 
Socrates,  the  sage  who  was  preeminently  patient;  which 
would  have  looked  like  an  epigram,  if  at  that  time  he 
had  better  known  his  poet.  But  that  Socrates  recalls  to 
Frederic  Alcibiades,  and  hence  more  than  one  equivocal 
and  dangerous  allusion,  in  which,  however,  Voltaire  does 
not  disdain  to  participate.  All  this  savors  of  the  Goth 
and  the  Horule,  who  have  great  minds,  but  minds  whose 
polish  is  only  superficial,  and  in  which  more  than  one 
corner  is  not  polished  at  all.  That  rough  diamond  will 
require  some  time  to  disengage  itself  from  its  matrix. 

Nevertheless  Fx-ederic  improved  rapidly;  he  improves 
visibly  in  this  Correspondence,  and  there  comes  a  time 
when  he  masters  and  manages  his  French  prose  in  a  way 
to  challenge  the  criticism  of  Voltaire.  As  to  his  verses, 
we  must  despair  of  him;  for  this  form  of  expression,  his 
throat  will  always  remain  hoarse  and  hard,  and  he  will 
never  correct  himself.  He  will  say,  for  example,  with- 
out difficulty: 

"Les  myrtes,  les  lauriers,  soignes  dans  ces  cantons 
Attendent  que,  cueillis  par  Ics  maina  d'^milie,  .  .  ." 

or,  again: 

"Que  vous  dirai-je,  0  tendre  Ovide? 
Vou3  dedidtes  VArt  d'aimer.'" 


276  MONDAY-CHATS. 

These  are  his  smallest  faults.  Let  us  end  this  chapter 
on  Frederic's  verses.  He  knew  very  well  that  this  mad- 
ness was  in  him  a  weakness  and  an  object  of  ridicule; 
that  people  praised  him  to  his  face,  only  to  call  him 
Cotin  behind  his  back.  "  That  man,"  said  Voltaire  one 
day,  showing  a  pile  of  papers  from  the  king,  "  do  you 
see?  is  Caesar  and  the  abbe  Cotin."  An  eminent  English 
historian,  Mr.  Macaulay,  improving  upon  this,  called 
Frederic  a  compound  of  Mithridates  and  Trissotin.  Fred- 
eric knew  or  had  a  misgiving  of  all  that,  yet  yielded, 
nevertheless,  to  his  rage  for  rhyming.  Being  very  amor- 
ous in  his  early  youth  of  a  young  girl  who  loved  verse, 
he  had  been  bitten  by  the  tarantula,  but  though  entirely 
cured  of  one  ill  (that  of  loving  young  girls)  he  was 
never  cured  of  the  other.  One  could  say  nothing  to 
him  upon  this  subject,  in  the  way  of  objection  or  expos- 
tulation, which  he  had  not  said  a  hundred  times  to  him- 
self: "I  have  the  misfortune,"  said  he,  "to  love  verse, 
and  often  to  make  very  bad  verse.  That  which  should 
disgust  me,  and  repel  every  reasonable  person,  is  pre- 
cisely the  spur  which  most  pricks  me  on.  I  say  to  my- 
self: 'Unhappy  little  poet!  thou  hast  hitherto  been  unable 
to  succeed;  courage!'  .  .  ."  He  will  say  to  himself  also: 
"  Whoever  is  not  a  poet  at  twenty,  will  not  become  such 
while  he  lives.  .  .  No  man  who  was  not  born  a  French- 
man, or  who  has  not  lived  a  long  time  at  Paris,  can 
possess  the  language  in  the  degree  of  perfection  which  is 
necessary  for  writing  good  verse  or  elegant  prose."  He 
will  compare  himself  to  vines  "which  always  have  a 
flavor  of  the  soil  in  which  they  have  been  planted." 
But,  finally,  this  occupation  amuses  him,  it  diverts  and 
rests  him   in  the  intervals  of  great   affairs,  and,  even  to 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  277 

the  last,  he  will  rhyme.  He  also  composed  some  music 
after  the  Italian  taste,  solos  by  hundreds,  and  he  played 
on  the  flute,  we  are  told,  to  perfection;  which  did  not 
hinder  Diderot  from  saying:  "It  is  a  great  pity  that  the 
mouth-piece  of  that  beautiful  flute  should  be  spoiled  by 
some  grains  of  Brandenburg  sand." 

In  Germany  where  they  write  dissertations  on  every- 
thing, they  have  discoursed  on  the  books  and  the  libraries 
of  Frederic,  u^Don  the  authors  whom  he  preferred,  and 
they  have  drawn  conclusions  concerning  the  nature  and 
quality  of  his  tastes.  From  the  fact  that  he  calls 
D'Alembert,  in  his  letters,  my  dear  Anaxagoras,  one  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  suppose,  for  example,  that  he  had  a 
certain  predilection  for  the  philosophy  of  Anaxagoras. 
These  are  the  refinements  and  subtleties  of  commentators. 
In  order  to  be  informed  of  the  real  intellectual  tastes  of 
Frederic,  it  is  sufficient  to  hear  him  himself,  as  he  de- 
scribes himself  to  the  life,  in  his  Correspondence.  He 
knew  antiquity  only  by  translations,  and  by  French 
translations;  he  did  not  therefore  judge  well,  except  in 
the  gross,  those  things  which  resist  that  kind  of  trans- 
port from  one  language  into  another.  The  poetic  beauty 
of  the  ancients  escaped  him  altogether;  he  did  not  even 
suspect  it.  He  judged  some  historians  well,  who  were 
proper  subjects  for  his  study  and  meditation;  and  yet 
when  we  see  him  lavish  the  title  of  ThucycUdes  on  Rol- 
lin  or  even  on  Voltaire,  we  are  forced  to  confess  that  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  any  notion  of  the  peculiar  man- 
ner which  constitutes  the  originality  of  that  great  his- 
torian. He  would  judge  better  of  Polybius,  in  whom 
the  subject  matter  is  most  important;  a  really  meritori- 
ous critic  (M.  Egger)  calls  my  attention  to  the  fact   that 


278  MONDAY-CHATS, 

Frederic  as  historian  and  Polybius  have  some  real  and 
very  striking  correspondences.  The  reflections  with  which 
Frederic  terminates  his  recital  of  the  Seven  Years'  War, 
closely  resemble  a  page  of  Polybius:  "At  a  distance  of 
two  thousand  years,  there  is  the  same  way  of  judging  of 
human  vicissitudes,  and  of  explaining  them  by  tricks  of 
cleverness  mingled  with  tricks  of  fortune," — only  the  his- 
torian king  is  more  sparing  of  reflections.  Frederic 
judged  certain  ancient  moralists  and  philosophers  well 
also,  and  even  some  philosophic  poets  in  whom  thought 
predominated,  like  Lucretius:  "When  I  am  aflBicted," 
said  he,  "I  read  the  third  book  of  Lucretius,  and  that 
comforts  me."  Yet  even  into  that  which  was  the  subject 
of  his  familar  readings,  he  was  so  far  from  looking 
closely,  as  regards  erudition,  that  he  chanced  inadvert- 
ently to  class  Epictetus  and  Marcus  Aurelius  in  the  list 
of  Latin  authors.  Among  the  moderns,  he  esteemed 
Locke  and  Bayle  most  highly,  those  breast-high  philoso- 
phers, whom  he  was  tempted  to  place  a  little  too  near  or 
even  above  the  great,  imaginative  authors,  like  Leibnitz 
or  Descartes,  whose  errors  ofiended  him.  He  did  not 
hesitate  to  ridicule  the  transcendental  geometry  as  use- 
less, and  he  went  so  far  in  this  matter  as  to  be  called 
to  order  by  D'Alembert.  His  studies  were  directed  most 
willingly  to  practical  morality  and  social  science;  in  that 
he  resembled  Voltaire,  who  was  himself  as  practical  as  a 
writer  can  be,  and  he  might  have  said  like  him:  "I  go 
to  the  fact;    that  is  my  motto." 

Touching  German  literature,  Frederic  is  hardly  in 
doubt;  he  is  very  sensible  of  its  faults,  which  were  with- 
out compensation  down  to  that  date, —  heaviness,  diffuse- 
ness,  the  division  of  dialects, —  and  he  indicates  some  of  the 


FEEDERIC   THE    GREAT.  279 

remedies.  He  has,  however,  a  presentiment  of  some  fine 
days  at  hand  for  this  national  literature,  and  he  pre- 
dicts them:  "/  announce  them  to  you,  they  are  going  to 
appear!''  He  does  not  seem  to  suspect  that  they  have, 
in  fact,  begun  to  shine  at  the  end  of  his  life,  and  that 
Goethe  has  already  come.  But  can  one  be  astonished  that 
Frederic  has  not  noticed  Werther? 

To  sum  up:  everything  like  manly  and  firm  thought 
went  straight  to  his  sensitive  and  vigorous  mind.  In  all 
other  things,  it  is  too  clear  that  he  was  more  or  less  out 
of  his  element;  in  all  that  one  may  call  invention  or  po- 
etry, he  made  only  rough  attempts,  native  sallies,  which 
burst  forth  especially  in  his  conversation,  but  which 
under  his  pen  became  feeble  or  turned  heavily  to  imita- 
tion. In  his  admiration  for  Voltaire  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  truth  and  justice,  and  there  was  also  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  error  and  illusion.  He  was  marvellously 
sensible  of  the  gaiety  of  that  brilliant  imagination.  He 
enjoyed  that  lively,  familiar,  sportive  genius.  "It  is  not 
given  to  everybody,"  said  he,  "  to  make  the  mind  laugh.'"' 
No  one  can  better  describe  that  species  of  attraction,  of  lu- 
minous  and  flashing  talent  peculiar  to  Voltaire.  Toward 
the  end,  while  wishing  him  pleasanter  sentiments,  he  sa- 
luted him  still  as  "  the  finest  organ  of  reason  and  of 
truth."  All  this  is  as  well  felt  as  it  is  justly  expressed. 
But  when  Frederic  admired  in  Voltaire  the  preeminently 
great  poet,  when  he  saw  in  the  Heuriade  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  epics,  and  when  he  put  it  above  the  Iliads  and 
the  ^neids,  he  showed  simply  his  lack  of  an  ideal,  and 
at  what  point,  on  that  side,  his  horizons  were  limited. 
The  great  objects  of  comparison  had  kept  out  of  his  range 
and  out  of  his  sight;  he  spoke  upon  that  matter  precisely 


280  MONDAY-CHATS. 

like  a  man  who  had  neither  seen  nor   conceived,  at  any- 
day,  the  supreme  and  real  beauty. 

"What   pleasures   surpass   those   of  the    mind?"    cried 
Frederic   at  twenty-five, —  mind,  that  is  to  say,   the  bril- 
liant reason,  reason  sportive  and  lively.     He  thought  al- 
ways thus,  and  the  whole  secret  of  his  passion  for  Voltaire 
is  there.     That  passion  (this  is  truly  the  word  for  it)  was, 
moreover,    reciprocal:    Voltaire    cannot    dissemble    it;    he 
himself,  the  great  coquet,  was  smitten  with  Frederic,  and 
in   the    witty  but   miserable   libel,    so    unworthy   of   con- 
fidence, which  he  wrote   after  •  his  flight  from    Berlin,   to 
avenge  himself  upon  the  king,  he  cannot  help  saying,  in 
speaking   of    the    Potsdam   suppers:     "The    suppers   were 
very  agreeable.     I  know  not  whether  I  am  deceived;   it 
seems   to   me    that    there    teas   much    ivit   there;    the   king 
had  it,  and  made  others  have  it."     Note  well  the  attrac- 
tion, even   in  his  anger.     See  the  irresistible   fascination 
which  they  exercised  upon  each  other,  and  which  survived 
even   friendship!     In   the   second  part  of  the  Correspond- 
ence, when  they  renew  it  after  the  quarrel,  we  find  they 
have  assumed  entirely  different   characters.      Every  illu- 
sion  has  vanished,  and    nothing    more    remains   but   that 
lively  relish  of  talent,  which  manifests  itself  still.     More- 
over  the    primitive    and   youthfully  enthusiastic   Frederic 
has  disappeared;    he   has   given   place   to  the   philosopher, 
to   the    superior    and    worldly-wise    man,   who   no   longer 
gropes  his  way  anywhere.     The  king  also-  makes  himself 
oftener  felt.     They  speak  truths  on  both  sides,  and  (rare 
thing)  they  bear  them.     Voltaire   tells  some  to  the  king, 
and   Frederic  pays  him   back:   "You   have    behaved  very 
badly  to  me,"  writes  he  to  Voltaire.   ...  "I   have   par- 
doned you  all,  and  I  even  wish  to  forget  all.     But  if  you 


FKEDERIC    THE    GREAT.  281 

had  not  had  to  do  with  a  fool  ivho  was  in  love  tvitli  your 
fine  genius,  you  would  not  have  got  off  so  well  at  every 
other.  .  .  ." 

Nevertheless,  after  these  severe  words,  too  strong  not 
to  be  just, —  after  these  words,  the  king,  as  the  fool  in 
love  with  the  brilliant  mind,  easih'  betrays  himself  again 
when  he  adds:  "Do  vou  need  some  sweet  thinsfs?  In 
good  time;  I  will  tell  you  some  truths.  I  regard  you 
as  the  finest  genius  whom  the  ages  have  produced;  I  ad- 
mire your  verses,  I  love  your  prose,  especiallj/  those  little 
detached  pieces  of  your  literary  Miscellanies.  Never  has 
any  author  before  3-ou  had  a  tact  so  fine,  a  taste  so  sure, 
so  delicate,  as  you  have.  You  are  charming  in  conversa- 
tion; you  know  how  to  instruct  and  to  amuse  at  the  same 
time.  You  are  the  most  bewitching  creature  that  I  know, 
and  capable  of  making  j'-ourself  loved  by  everj-body  when 
you  will.  You  have  so  many  graces  of  mind  that  you 
can  offend  and  at  the  same  time  merit  the  indulgence  of 
those  who  know  you.  Finally,  you  would  be  perfect  if 
you  were  not  a  man."' 

Let  anv  one  sav  now  whether  he  who  had  such  a  likiner 
for  Voltaire,  and  who  found  these  French  ways  of  insinuat- 
ing sweet  things  after  the  bitterness,  was  not  the  man  of 
his  time  who  showed  the  most  ability  when  confronted 
with  Voltaire. 

When  one  has  read  a  certain  Portrait  of  Voltaire  by 
Frederic  (1756),  a  Portrait  traced  with  the  hand  of  a 
master,  with  unerring  penetration  and  without  embellish- 
ment, one  understands  still  better  the  meaning  of  the 
language    which   he  has  just   used, —  that   that    seductive 

genius  has  such  graces  that  he  speedily  lays  hold  again 
12* 


282 


MONDAY-CHATS. 


of  the  very  persons  whom  he  has  offended,  and  who  know 

him.* 

I  believe  that  I  have  kept  within  the  bounds  of  truth, 
in  saying  that  the  intellectual  attraction  of  these  men  for 
each  other  survived  even  their  friendship;  for  it  is  evident, 
when  we  read  in  good  faith  the  whole  series  and  the  end  of 
that  Correspondence,  that   their   friendship   itself  has  not 
died,  that  it  has  revived  with  some  of  the  old  charm  min- 
gled with  reason,  and  that  it   is   founded,  not  simply  on 
amusement,    but   on   their    serious    and    higher   qualities. 
At  the  same  time  that  he    combats   the    always   irascible 
and  choleric  instincts  of  the  now  aged  Voltaire,  Frederic 
exalts  and    favors,  as   far  as  possible,  his   beneficent   and 
humane   tendencies.      He  takes    pleasure   in    praising,    m 
encouraging    as    a  defender   of   humanity  and   toleration, 
the  man  who  clears  and  repeoples  the  almost  abandoned 
soil  of   Ferney,  as    he    himself  has    peopled    the  sands  of 
Brandenburg;    in  a  word,  he  recognizes  and  he  embraces 
the   great   practical    poet   as  his    fellow  laborer  in    social 
work  and  in  civilization.     With  a  remnant  of  veneration, 
and,  if  one  will,  of  yet  touching  idolatry,  Frederic,  in  all 
the   comparisons   he   makes  of  the  two,  always  gives  the 
advantage  to  Voltaire,  and  that,  too,  in  a  heart-felt  tone 
whose  sincerity  is  above  suspicion.    Speaking  of  that  future 
of  perfected  reason  of  which  he  perceived  hardly  the  dawn, 
and  of  which,  thoroughly  sceptical  as  he  was,  he  did  not 
utterly  despair  as  regards  the  future  of  humanity,  he  says: 
"Everything  with   man   depends   upon  the  time  when  he 
comes  into  the  world.     Although  I  have  come  too  late,  I 
do  not  regret  it:    /  have  seen  Voltaire;  and  if   I  see  him 

*  It  appears  to  he  proved  to-day  that  that  rcmarkahle  Portrait  of  Voltaire, 
found  umonK  Frederic's  papers,  was  not  his  composition:  in  copying  it  witU 
his  own  hand,  he  limited  himself  to  ratifying  its  truth. 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  283 

no  more,  I  read  him  and  he  writes  to  me."  From  such 
accents  one  might  divine,  though  he  did  not  tell  it,  the 
passion  which  was  still  the  profoundest  and  the  most 
radical  in  Frederic,  that  which  Voltaire  while  living  per- 
sonified in  his  eyes:  "My  last  passion  will  be  that  for 
Letters!"     It  had  been  the  first  also. 

The  intercourse  of  Frederic  with  D'Alembert  was  of 
quite  a  different  nature  from  his  intimacy  with  A'^oltaire; 
it  was  never  as  lively,  but  it  was  long  and  enduring. 
It  was  not  simply  a  natural  liking  which  drew  Frederic 
to  D'Alembert:  "We  princes  have  all  selfish  souls,  and 
we  never  make  acquaintances  except  when  we  have  some 
private  views,  which  look  directly  to  our  profit."  Frederic 
had  early  thought  of  drawing  D'Alembert  to  Berlin  to 
make  him  president  of  his  Academy.  That  purpose  be- 
came ciuite  serious  after  the  death  of  Maupertuis,  and 
when  Frederic  had  come  out  of  the  Seven  Years'  War. 
I  have  before  me  the  manuscript  and  unpublished  Collec- 
tion of  Letters  written  by  D'Alembert  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Lespinasse  during  his  sojourn  with  the  king  of  Prussia. 
In  June,  1763,  D'Alembert  went  after  Frederic,  who  was 
then  in  his  Westphalian  States;  joining  him  at  Gueldres,  he 
traveled  as  one  of  his  suite  as  far  as  Potsdam.  D'Alem- 
bert had  already  seen  Frederic  several  years  before;  on 
seeing  him  again,  he  was  surprised  to  find  him  greater 
than  his  reputation.  Frederic  had  the  characteristic  pecu- 
liar to  great  men,  of  surpassing  expectation  even  at  the 
first  sight.  He  begins  by  chatting  four  hours  in  succession 
with  D'Alembert;  he  speaks  to  him  with  simplicity,  with 
modesty,  of  philosoiihy,  of  Letters,  of  peace,  of  war,  of 
everything.  At  that  date,  that  is  to  say,  three  months 
only  after  peace  was  concluded,  Frederic  had  already  re- 


284  MOKDAT-CHATS. 

built  four  thousand  five  hundred  houses  in  the  ruined 
villages;  two  years  after  (October,  1765),  he  will  have 
rebuilt  not  less  than  fourteen  thousand  five  hundred.  We 
observe,  at  the  very  outset,  with  D'Alembert,  this  organ- 
izing and  even  pacific  side  of  the  warrior.  The  amiable, 
familiar,  and  seductive  side  of  Frederic  is  perfectly  indi- 
cated in  the  Eecital  of  our  traveller;  the  prudent  and 
modest  guest  has  not  had  time  or  a  desire  to  perceive 
some  faults  which  often  impaired  that  groundwork  of 
wisdom  and  of  agreeableness. 

Honors    do    not    turn  the  head  of   D'Alembert:    he   is 
touched,   but   not   intoxicated.     While   on  his  way  to  the 
Brunswick  States,  he  has  dined  at  the  table  of  the  ducal 
family,  and   has   been    styled  Marquis:   he  has  submitted 
to  the  title   after    a   slight  protest.     Apparently,  he  says, 
that  was  etiquette.     With  Frederic  there  is  no  etiquette, 
and  all   passes  as  with   a  private  man,  a  man  of  genius. 
D'Alembert  would   have  little  to  do  to  become   necessary 
to  Frederic  by  his  conversation,  as  Frederic  would  be  to 
D'Alembert.     It  was  no  longer  the  time  of  brilliant  sup- 
pers at  Potsdam,    of   which  Voltaire    had   seen  and   con- 
tributed to  the  last  five  days:  the  familiar  guests  of  that 
time,    the    friends    of   the    king's   youth,    at    that   second 
epoch,    were    dead    or    grown    old.      The    king    was    not 
merely  the  pleasantest  man  in  his  kingdom;  if  we  except 
the  Lord  Marshal,  he  was  the  only  one.     "  He   is  almost 
the  only  person  in  his  kingdom,"  says  D'Alembert,  "  with 
whom  one  can  converse,  at   least  can   have   that  kind  of 
conversation  of  which  one  knows  but  little  out  of  France, 
and  which  becomes    a   necessity  when  one  has   known   it 
once."     D'Alembert  is  inexhaustible  upon  the  king's  affa- 
bility   and    gaiety,    the    lights    which    he    brings    to   bear 


FREDERIC    THE    GREAT.  285 

upon  every  subject,  his  good  administration,  his  care  for 
the  welfare  of  his  people,  the  justice  and  the  ji<st>iess 
which  mark  all  his  judgments.  Touching  Jean-Jacques, 
he  says:  "The  king  talks,  it  seems  to  me,  very  well 
about  the  works  of  Rousseau;  he  finds  heat  and  force  in 
them,  but  very  little  logic  and  truth;  he  professes  to 
read  only  for  self-instruction,  and  the  works  of  Eousseau 
teach  him  little  or  nothing." 

To  D'Alembert,  whose  estimable  character  he  appreci- 
ated at  the  outset,  Frederic  shows  himself  purely  as  a 
philosopher;  one  sees  him  as  he  would  have  liked  to  be 
seen  in  the  second  half  of  his  life,  if  gout  and  ill-humor 
had  not  irritated  him  too  much,  and  if  he  had  had  about 
him  some  worthy  person  to  sympathize  with  and  listen 
to  him: — "His  conversation  runs  sometimes  upon  litera- 
ture, sometimes  upon  philosophy,  very  often  even  upon 
war  and  politics,  and  sometimes  upon  contempt  of  life, 
of  glory,  and  of  honors."'  This  is  the  circle  of  human 
subjects  which  he  loved  to  treat  habitually,  sincerely,  and 
always  in  a  moralizing  way;  but  literature  and  philoso- 
phy were  still  the  topics  of  which  he  loved  to  chat  above 
all  others,  in  order  to  unbend,  after  he  had  done  his 
duties  as  king.  All  the  good  qualities  of  Frederic  are 
set  in  relief  in  this  Recital,  and  D'Alembert,  elsewhere 
circumspect,  cares  not  to  see  any  others  during  these 
three  months  of  his  visit.  He  knows,  however,  how  to 
resist  the  caresses  and  the  delicate  offers  of  the  king. 
One  day  when  he  was  walking  with  him  in  the  gardens 
of  Sans-Souci,  Frederic  gathers  a  rose  and  presents  it  to 
him,  saying:  "I  should  very  much  like  to  give  you  some- 
thing better."  That  better  was  the  Presidency  of  his 
Academy.     It  is  singular  to  see  thus  connected  the  Presi- 


286  MONDAY-CHATS. 

dency  of  an  Academy  and  a  rose.  D'Alembert  remains 
wise,  lie  remains  a  philosopher  and  a  friend  to  the  end, 
and  faithful  to  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse.  He  returns 
to  France  grateful,  with  his  heart  forever  won  to  Fred- 
eric, but  not  vanquished. 

All  must  be  told:  some  years  after,  Frederic  communi- 
cated, one  evening,  some  of  his  verses  to  Professor  Thie- 
bault,  a  good  grammarian  and  academician,  whom  D'Alem- 
bert had  procured  for  him,  and  inadvertently  suffered 
himself  to  go  so  far  as  to  show  a  very  biting  epigram 
which  he  had  composed  against  D'Alembert  himself;  that 
caustic  king  could  not  deny  himself  the  malicious  pleas- 
ure of  noting  something  ridiculous  which  he  had  hit 
upon  in  that  honorable  character.  It  was  a  capital  fault 
of  Frederic;  he  did  not  easily  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
saying  disobliging  things  to  people  or  of  writing  pungent 
things  about  them.  In  the  present  case  he  soon  repented 
having  shown  his  epigram  to  Thiebault,  and  he  enjoined 
secrecy;  the  good  D'Alembert  never  knew  anything  of  it. 
But  surrounded,  as  he  was,  at  home  with  courtly  wits 
and  all  more  or  less  dull,  Frederic  was  less  scrupulous 
with  them.  As  soon  as  he  had  discovered  their  weak 
side,  he  pricked  them  pitilessly  in  their  vulnerable  points; 
he  made  them  his  butts,  he  took  pains  to  show  his  con- 
tempt for  humanity  in  their  persons,  and  he  thus  ac- 
quired the  reputation  of  a  bad  man,  when  he  was  really 
only  a  terrible  satirist  of  society.  The  wittiest  of  these 
dull  courtiers  and  of  these  false  friends,  such  as  the  able 
Bastiani,  secretly  avenged  themselves  on  the  king  by  re- 
viling him  to  strangers.  M.  de  Guibert  has  reported  to 
us  in  his  Journal  of  Travel  one  of  these  confidential  dis- 
closures full  of  baseness  and  of   perfidy,  regarding  which 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  287 

he  shows  himself  too  credulous.  The  misfortune  of  Fred- 
eric was  to  be  surrounded  at  all  times,  and  especially 
toward  the  end  of  his  life,  only  by  second-rate  people  of 
letters,  whose  not  very  elevated  character  afforded  too 
ready  facilities  to  his  princely  sports.  Worthy  men,  who 
had  respect  for  themselves,  like  D'Alembert,  would  have 
compelled  him  in  his  turn  to  respect  them.  The  esti- 
mable Thiebault,  in  his  modest  way,  knew  how  to  do  this. 
Returned  to  France,  D'Alembert  continued  to  corre- 
spond with  Frederic;  and  (if  one  forgets  the  epigram 
which  was  never  known),  the  Correspondence  gives  evi- 
dence on  both  sides  of  much  reason,  of  genuine  philosophy, 
and  even  of  friendship,  so  far  as  it  could  then  exist 
between  a  private  person  and  a  monarch.  Let  us  not 
forget  that  D'Alembert  also  had  his  weaknesses;  we  know 
already  that  the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century 
had  not  much  love  for  the  liberty  of  the  press,  except 
when  it  promoted  their  own  interest;  one  day  D'Alembert 
was  insulted  by  some  gazetteer  who  edited  the  Lower 
Rhine  Courier,  in  the  States  of  Frederic;  he  denounces 
him  to  the  king.  Here  it  is  Frederic  who  is  the  true 
philosopher,  the  true  citizen  of  modern  society,  and  he 
replies : 

"I  know  that  a  Frenchman,  a  countryman  of  yours,  daubs 
regularly  two  sheets  of  paper  a  week  at  Cleves;  I  know  that 
people  buy  his  sheets,  and  that  a  fool  always  finds  a  greater  fool 
to  read  him;  but  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  persuade  myself  that  a 
writer  of  that  temper  can  prejudice  your  reputation.  Ah!  my 
good  D'Alembert.  if  you  were  king  of  England,  you  would  en- 
counter many  other  lampoons,  with  which  your  very  faithful 
subjects  would  furnish  you  to  try  your  patience.  If  you  knew 
what  a  number  of  infamous  writings  your  dear  countrymen  have 
published  against  me  during  the  war,  you  would  laugh  at  this 
miserable  scribbler.     1  have  not  deigned  to  read  all  these  works 


288  MOKDAY-CHATS. 

which  are  the  offspring  of  the  hate  and  envy  of  my  enemies,  and 
I  have  recollected  that  beautiful  ode  of  Horace:  'The  wise  man 
continues  unmoved  \  .  .  ." 

He  continues  to  paraphrase  the  Justum  et  tenacem.  .  .  . 
We  recognize  in  this  admirable  lesson  the  disciple  of 
Bayle  on  the  throne.  At  another  day  it  will  be  the 
disciple  of  Lucretius.  D'Alembert  is  plunged  in  sorrow, 
a  deep  and  very  legitimate  sorrow:  he  has  lost  Mademoi- 
selle de  Lespinasse;  he  is  going  to  lose  Madame  Geoffrin. 
That  geometer's  heart,  so  sensitive  to  friendship,  does  not 
fear  to  overflow  into  the  soul  of  Frederic,— to  pour  into 
it  its  grief,  and  almost  its  sobs,  and  the  king  replies  to 
him  as  a  friend  and  as  a  sage,  by  two  or  three  letters  of 
philosophical  consolation,  which  should  be  quoted  in  full. 
A  lofty  and  tender  epicureanism  breathes  through  them, 
that  of  a  Lucretius  speaking  to  his  friend: 

"I  compassionate  the  misfortune  which  has  happened  to  you, 
in  losing  a  person  to  whom  you  were   attached.     The  wounds  of 
the  heart  are  the  most  painful  of  all,  and,  in  spite  of  the  fine 
maxims  of  the  philosophers,  it  is  only  time  that  can  heal  them. 
Man  is  an  animal  that    has    more  feeling   than  reason.      It  has 
been  my  misfortune  to  have  had  too  bitter  an  experience  of  what 
one  suffers  from   such  losses.     The  best  remedy  is  to  do  violence 
to  one's  feelings,  to  divert  one's  attention  from  a  painfid  thought 
which  is  too  deeply  rooted  in  the  mind.     Some  geometrical  occu- 
pation  should  be   chosen  which  demands   much  application,   to 
dispel  as  well   as   one  can  the  fatal  ideas  which  are  incessantly 
renewed,  and  which  it  is  necessary  to  banish  as  far  as  possible. 
I  would  propose  to  you  better  remedies,  if  I  knew  of  any.    Cicero, 
to  console  himself  for  the  death  of  his  dear  Tullia,  threw  himself 
into  literary  composition,    and  wrote   several   treatises,   some   of 
which  have  reached  us.     Our  reason  is  too  weak  to  vanquish  the 
-pain  of  a  mortal  wound;  we  must  yield  something  to  nature,  and 
confess  to  ourselves  that  at  your  age,  as  at  mine,  one  must  con- 
sole himself  with  the  thought  that  he  will  not  be  long  in  rejom- 
ing  the  objects  of  his  regrets." 


FREDERIC   THE    GREAT.  289 

He  then  engages  to  come  and  pass  some  months  with 
him:  "We  will  philosophize  together  on  the  nothingness 
of  life,  on  human  philosophy,  upon  the  vanity  of  stoicism 
and  of  our  whole  existence."  And  he  adds,  with  that  mix- 
ture of  the  warrior-king  and  the  philosopher  which  would 
seem  contradictory  if  it  were  not  touching  here,  that  "  he 
will  feel  as  much  joy  in  trancjuillizing  him  as  if  he  had 
noil  a  battle.''''  Such  letters  well  atone  for  some  blunt 
expressions  which  one  might  find  in  the  same  collection, 
and  which  recall  at  times  the  presence  of  the  master; 
they  are  a  reply  to  those  who,  judging  Frederic  only  by 
bis  harsh  words  and  by  his  epigrams,  deny  that  he  had, 
even  at  the  close  of  his  career,  sentiments  of  affection,  of 
humanity,  and,  I  dare  say,  of  goodness,  even  that  he  had 
had  real  and  lively  sentiments  of  friendship  in  his  youth. 
For  myself,  on  whatever  side  I  regard  him,  even  in  the 
years  when  his  faults  were  most  marked,  I  can,  on  the 
whole,  but  come  to  a  favorable  conclusion,  and  say,  as 
Bolingbroke  said  of  Marlborough:  "He  was  so  great  a 
man  that  I  have  forgotten  his  faults."  In  the  present 
case,  the  great  man  had,  in  spite  of  all,  some  goodness 
and  some  humanity,  and  a  basis  of  heart. 

In  a  select  edition  of  Frederic's  works,  which  should 
be  made  for  the  use  of  people  of  intellect  and  taste,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  trash  whose  proximity  always  spoils 
the  best  things,  I  would  have  admitted  only  his  Histories, 
two  or  three  of  his  Dissertations  at  most,  and  his  Corre- 
spondence; there  would  be  already  quite  enough  of  his 
verses,  which  are  scattered  through  his  Letters,  without 
adding  others.  We  should  thus  have,  in  all,  a  dozen 
volumes  of  strong,  sound,  agreeable,  and  entirely  instructive 
reading.      Let  us  drop  those   names,  so  often  applied  to 


290  MO>'DAY-CHATS. 

Frederic,  and  which  wouhl  be  injurious  or  flattering, — 
the  too  debatable  names  of  the  Emperor  Julien  and  Mar- 
cus Aurelius;  let  us  not  emplo}^  on  the  other  side,  the 
name  of  Lucian,  of  whom  he  wovild  only  furnish  parodies 
and  strange  travesties;  but,  if  we  would  give  him  a  clas- 
sic designation,  let  us  define  him  in  his  best  productions 
as  a  writer  of  the  most  marked  character,  whose  temper 
is  wholly  his  own,  hut  who,  in  the  habit  and  turn  of  his 
thought,  resembles  at  once  Polybius,  Lucretius  and  Bayle. 
December  16,  1850. 


IJ^DEX. 


A 

Ampire,  M.,  on  the  epochs  of  pul- 
pit eloquence  in  France,  70. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  as  a  critic,  70. 

Augustine,  Saint,  ingenious  com- 
parison by,  210. 

Authors,  little  known  of  the 
greatest,  68. 

B 

Baron,  the  actor,  on  Massillon,  94. 

Beaumont,  Madame  de,  her  ac- 
quaintance with  M.  Joubert, 
189-194;  her  salon,  194. 

Bossuet,  44-88;  on  Lewis  XIV,  5; 
his  training  of  the  Dauphin  of 
France,  30;  his  increasing  fame, 
44;  his  political  and  religious 
views,  45;  his  tone  like  that  of 
Moses,  45. 46;  works  of  Lamar- 
tine  and  Poujoulat  on,  46,  47; 
M.  de  Baussuet's  biography  of, 
^  47;  the  abbe  Victor  Vaillarifs 
study  on  his  sermons,  48;  his 
birth  and  parentage,  49;  his 
precocity,  49:  his  love  for  the 
Bible  and  for  Homer,  50;  be- 
comes canon  at  Metz.  50,  purity 
of  his  youth,  50;  sees  Richelieu, 
51;  becomes  a  student  at  the 
college  of  Navarre,  51 ;  his  rapid 
rise  at  Metz,  53:  analysis  and 
criticism  of  one  of  his  early  ser- 
mons, 52-59;  on  the  heresy  of 
the  Marcionites,  53;  on  the  civil 
discords  of  France,  58;  his  early 
style,  59;  his  personal  appear- 
ance, 59-63;  his  Panegyrics  on 
Samt  Gorgon  and  Saint  Paul, 
64,  76,  77;  preaches  at  Court, 
65;  his  sermons  on  All  Saints' 


Day  criticised,  66-69;  on  true 
joy,  68,  69;  his  resemblance  to 
'yEschylus,  70;  of  Lewis  XIV, 
upon  his  style,  70-74;  com- 
pared with  Bourdaloue,  74-76; 
his  sermons  upon  "Ambition," 
"Honor,"  and  the  "Love  of 
Pleasure,"  77-80;  his  repeti- 
tions, 79 ;  on  the  freaks  of  for- 
tune, 79,  80;  his  use  of  obso- 
lescent words,  80;  his  funeral 
orations,  80;  contrasted  with 
Massillon,  120;  his  treatise  on 
"  The  Knowledge  of  God,"  132- 
136;  his  mefhod  of  reasoning 
compared  with  Pascal's,  132- 
136;  eloquent  extract  from,  133; 
on  Divine  Providence.  223. 

Bourdaloue,  compared  with  Bos- 
suet, 75,  76. 

Button,  on  severity  of  style.  93. 

Burton,  author  of  the  "Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,"  63. 


Caylus,  Madame  de,  her  "Recol- 
lections," 146. 

Chateaubriand,  on  the  Memoirs 
of  Lewis  XIV,  20;  compared 
with  Rousseau,  147,  150,  151; 
encouraged  and  advised  by 
.Toubert,  189;  his  best  pieces, 
203;  compared  with  Bernardin 
de  Saint- PieiTe,  204;  Sainte- 
Beuve's  lectures  on.  36. 

Choiseul,  French  I\Iinister,  his  al- 
terations of  the  text  in  the 
Works  of  Frederic  the  Great, 
249,  250. 

Clarendon.  Lord,  causes  of  his 
fall,  223. 


292 


I]S"DEX. 


Conversation,  histories  of,  73.        j 
Conversions,  religious,  MassiUon 

on,  no. 

Corneille,  on  the  deceptiveness  of  [ 
example,  222.  ' 

Cousin,  his  exaggerations  and 
prejudices,  70,  71;  his  en-ors 
regarding  Lewis  XIV,  71,  72. 

Criticism,  literary,  Sainte-Beuve's 
theory  of,  54-66;  Wordsworth 
on,  65;  its  excellence  in  France, 
66,  67;  character  of  British, 
67-70. 

D 

D'Alembert,     his     acquaintance 
with  Frederic  the  Great,  283- 
■  289;  satirized  by  Frederic,  286; 
his  correspondence  with  Fred- 
eric, 286-288. 

D'Haussonville,  Viscount,  quoted, 
15,  16. 

Daguesseau,  Chancellor,  on  "  Pas- 
cal's Thoughts,"  134. 

Doubts  in  religion,  MassiUon's 
sermon  on,  105,  106. 

Droz,  M.,  his  "Art  of  Being  Hap- 
py," 75,  76. 

Drj^len,  John,  few  facts  known 
of  his  history,  63. 

Dubois,  archbishop  of  Cambray, 
119,  120. 

E 

Ennui,  MassiUon  on,  114. 

Eugene,  Prince,  Fenelon  on,  38, 
39. 

External  influences,  their  influ- 
ence on  men  of  genius  overes- 
timated, 61,  62. 


Fenelon,  22-43;  his  fondness  for 

La  Fontaine"s  Fables,  22;  com- 
pared with  La  Fontaine,  22-24: 
naturally  tolerant,  24,  41;  his 
character  as  bishop,  24,  25; 
portrayed  Ijy  Saint-Simon,  27, 
28;  his  infl\ience  upon  the  duke 
of  Burgundy,  28,  29;  com  paved, 
as  an  educator,  with  Bossuet, 
30;  his  "Spiritual  Letters,"  31, 


32 ;  his  sweetness  of  temper,  32 ; 
on  piety,  33;  his  letters  to  the 
chevalier  Destouches,  33-40:  on 
the  ancient  and  modern  styles, 
35;  his  letter  on  the  death  of  the 
duchess  of  Burgundy,  36;  his 
letter  on  the  death  of  the  duke 
of  Burgundy,  37 ;  his  dislike  to 
being  under  obligation,  38;  on 
the  prince  Eugene,  38,  39;  his 
account  of  a  dangerous  acci- 
dent, 39,  40;  his  gaiety,  40;  on 
La  Motte's  translation  of  the 
"Iliad,"  41;  his  chief  weak- 
ness, 41;  his"Telemachus,"42; 
characterized  as  a  literary  man, 
43;  his  love  of  Horace,  49,  50; 
his  treatise  on  "The  Existence 
of  God"  analyzed,  128-130;  his 
mode  of  reasoning  compared 
with  Pascal's,  131,  132. 
Frayssinous,  the  abbe,  his  lect- 
ures on  religious  doctrine,  107. 
Frederic  I,  of  Prussia,  256. 
Frederic  William  I,  of  Prussia, 

his  character,  257. 
Frederic  the  Great,  248-290;  the 
different  editions  of  his  works, 
248-252;    his    character,    253; 
his  miUtary  abilities,  253,  254; 
a  great  king,  254;  his  opinion 
of  a  prince's  duties,  255,  257; 
his  truthfulness,  256;  his  par- 
ticipation  in  the  Partition   of 
Poland,  259;  his  lack  of  ideal- 
ity,  259;    his    irreligion,    260, 
261 :  character  of  his  histories, 
261-268;  his  preference  of  the 
French    language,     263:      his 
sketches    of    the    Electors    of 
Prussia,   263;    his    style,    264; 
his    judgments    of   men,   264, 
265;    his  sayings  about  Peter 
the  Great,  Cardinal  Alberoni, 
and  General  Seckendorif,  265; 
his  indebtedness  to  good  for- 
tune, 266:   his  History  of  the 
Seven    Years'   War,    266-268; 
his    opinion    of   the    Austrian 
Court,  267;  his  reflections  upon 
the  futility  of  human  schemes, 


INDEX.  ■ 


293 


i4;  his  lack  of 
his  rage  foi* 


267,   268;    his  love  of  letters, 
269,  270,  283;  his   remark   on 
human  versatility,  270;  his  cor- 
respondence with  Voltaire,  271- 
275,  280,  281;   his  admiration 
and  overestimate  of  Voltaire, 
272,  273,  279,  281;  his  self-esti- 
mate in  youth,  273,  274;   his 
opinion  of  Lewis  XIV,  274,  275: 
his  practicality 
delicacy,  274,  275 
rhyming,  275,  276:  his  love  of 
music,  277;  his  classical  knowl- 
edge, 277;  his  resemblance  as 
a  historian  to  Polybius,  278;  his 
favorite  authors    and    studies, 
278;   his  supposed  Portrait  of 
Voltaire,   281;   his  intercourse 
with  D'Alembert,  283;  the  lat- 
ter's  opinion  of  him,  285;  his 
opinion  of  Rousseau,  285;  offers 
the   Presidency  of   the  Berlin 
Academy  to  D'Alembert,  285; 
his  epigram    on    D'Alembert, 
286:    his  satirical   habits,  286, 
287;  his  letter  on  the  treatment 
of  lampoons,  287;  his  letter  of 
sympathy  to  D'Alembert.  288, 
289;  final  estimate  of,  289,  290. 
Frenchmen,  their  impulsiveness, 
220:  characterized  bv  the  abbe 
Galiani,  239,  247;  their  sunny 
temperament,  23. 

G 

Galiani,  the  abbe,  Ferdinand, 
227-247:  his  birth,  227;  his  ear- 
ly works,  228;  made  an  abbe, 
228 ;  his  residence  at  Paris,  228, 
229;  characterized  by  Grimm  j 
and  Marmontel,  229;  his  buf-  j 
fooneriesund  jests,  229,  230;  his 
description  of  himself,  230;  his 
love  of  Paris,  231.  242;  his  wit-  i 
ty  sayings,  231,  232,  234,  243, 
244;  his  apologues,  232;  his 
confutation  of  atheism,  232, 
233;  his  philosophic  views,  235, 
236;  his  views  of  incredulity, 
236,  237;  an  advocate  of  toler- 
ation, 287;  admired  by  Diderot, 


237;  his  "Dialogues  upon  the 
Grain  Trade,"  238,  239,  240; 
his  opinion  of  the  French  and 
their  language,  239,  247;  his 
observations  on  economists  and 
statesmen,  240;  criticised  by 
the  abbe  Morellet  and  Turgot, 
241:  his  classification  of  rea- 
sonings, 241,  242;  becomes  Sec- 
retary of  Commerce  at  Naples, 
243;  his  studies,  243;  his  opera 
boutfe,  243;  his  noble  qualities, 
244;  his  paradoxical  character, 
242,  244,  246;  his  death,  246; 
his  correspondence,  246. 

Geoffrin,  Madame,  162-184;  her 
saloH,  162,  163,  169-171;  her 
birth,  163;  her  account  of  edu- 
cation, 164;  her  love  of  Paris, 
165;  anecdotes  of  her  hus- 
band, 165;  witty  sayings  of, 
166, 171,173,  174,  178,  183;  her 
personal  appearance,  166;  her 
style  of  dress,  166,  167;  her  in- 
debtedness to  Madame  de  Ten- 
cin,  167;  contrasted  with  her, 
169;  her  dinners  for  artists  and 
men-of-letters,  169;  her  salon 
compared  with  those  of  Madame 
du  i)eiFand  and  Mademoiselle 
Lespinasse,  170;  her  habit  of 
scolding,  172.  177,  178;  de- 
scribed by  Sir  Horace  Walpole, 
172,  177;  her  resemblance  to 
Fontenelle,  173;  her  benefi- 
cence, 172-175;  her  egoism, 
174,  175;  her  good  sense,  177; 
her  note  to  David  Hume,  178; 
her  mental  and  moral  peculiar- 
ities, 179,  184;  her  journey  to 
Poland.  180,  181;  attacked  by 
the  dramatists  and  by  Montes- 
quieu, 182;  her  religious  habits, 
182,  183:  her  last  sickness,  183; 
her  death,  184;  compared  with 
Madame  Recamier,  184. 

Gibbon,  the  historian,  his  merits 
and  defects.  74. 

Globe,  the  Paris  organ  of  the 
Docfi'i)ic(ires,  its  contributors 
and  its  chai-acter,  17. 


294 


INDEX. 


Goethe,  on  French  and  German 
criticism,  17;  saying  of,  27; 
on  classicism  and  romanticism, 
48. 

Grimm,  Jacob,  on  the  abbe  Gali- 
ani,  229. 

Guizot,  205-226;  his  "Discourse 
on  the  History  of  the  English 
Revolution,"  205,  206,  219-225; 
his  writings  a  linked  series, 
206;  his  persistence,  207;  not  a 
lUferateitr,  207,  208;  his  quali- 
ties as  a  writer,  208;  the  found- 
er of  a  historic  school,  209;  his 
"  History  of  Civilization  in  Eu- 
rope," 209,  212,  213;  his  phi- 
losophy of  history  considered, 
212;  his  "History  of  the  Eng- 
lish Revolution"  criticised,  214- 
216;  compared,  as  a  historian, 
with  Hume,  216;  his  extreme 
gravity  of  style,  216,  217;  his 
quaUties  as  an  orator,  217-219; 
his  admiration  of  the  English 
government,  220;  his  condem- 
nation of  revolutions,  231;  his 
excessive  use  of  Providential 
intervention  in  history,  223, 
224. 

H 

Hallam,  Henry,  as  a  critic,  69,  70. 

Havet,  M.,  his  edition  of  Pascal's 
"Thoughts,"  123,  139.  140. 

Henry  IV,  King  of  France,  his 
style,  18;  saying  of,  116. 

Historians,  not  necessarily  able 
politicians  or  statesmen,  213; 
Montaigne  on,  225;  hints  to, 
226. 

History,  difficulties  attending  its 
study,  210-213;  its  illusions, 
21 1 ;  dangers  of  generalizations 
in,  212-214;  the  true  philos- 
ophy of,  222;  the  intervention 
of  Providence  in,  223-224.  225; 
of  what  it  should  treat,  226. 

Hume,  David,  compared,  as  a 
historian,  with  Guizot,  210;  his 
opinion  of  the  abbe  Galiani, 
238 


Idle  hours,  their  value  to  a  writer, 

etc.,  44. 

J 

Joubert,  Joseph,  185-204;  on 
Fenelon,  32;  his  birth,  185; 
his  "Thoughts  and  Letters," 
185,  186;  his  character,  186; 
a  pupil  of  Diderot,  187;  his 
dislike  for  sensationalism,  188; 
on  the  Athenian  taste,  188; 
his  aid  to  Chateaubriand,  189; 
his  acquaintance  with  Madame 
de  Beaumont,  189-194;  his  let- 
ters to  her,  191-193;  his  excel- 
lencies and  faults  as  a  writer, 
195-197,  201,  202;  on  liter- 
ary style,  197-200;  his  obser- 
vations on  force  in  literature, 
198,  199;  his  mannerism,  200; 
his  conversation,  203;  his  com- 
parison of  Saint- Pierre  and 
Chateaubriand,  204. 

L 

La  Fontaine,  compared  with  Fene- 
lon, 22,  24. 

Lamartine,  his  description  of  Bos- 
suet,  60,  61;  the  same  criti- 
cised, 61-63;  on  the  compara- 
tive popularity  of  Bossuet  and 
Bourdaloue,  75. 

Lamennais,  his  intimacy  with 
Sainte-Beuve,  30,  31;  his 
"  Words  of  a  Believer,"  31. 

Lampoons,  Frederic  the  Great  on 
the  treatment  of.  287. 

Lessing,  saying  of,  52. 
I  Lewis  XIV,  and  his  writings,  1- 
21;  his  looks  and  character  in 
youth,  3-5 ;  Bossuet  on,  5 ;  edu- 
cated by  events,  6;  Mazarin  on, 
6;  Saint-Simon  on,  7,  9;  his 
qualifications  as  a  sovereign,  8, 
12;  on  the  blessings  of  royalty, 
9;  rules  without  a  minister,  10; 
loves  application,  10;  on  the 
study  of  history,  11;  conserva- 
tive in  his  views,  12;  on  trea- 
ties, 13;  his  "slow  and  sure" 


INDEX. 


295 


policy,  13;  on  the  qualities 
needed  by  a  sovereign,  14;  did 
violence  to  the  genius  of  the 
French  monarchy,  15;  his  mis- 
takes, 15, 16;  on  following  one's 
instincts,  16;  his  Memoirs,  16- 
17;  anecdote  of,  17;  his  style, 
17,  18;  a  good  story-teller,  18; 
his  speech  at  the  siege  of  Lille, 
19;  on  his  glory,  19;  his  self- 
estimates,  20;  Chateaubriand 
on  his  Memoirs,  20;  his  influ- 
ence upon  Frencla  literature,  21 ; 
his  admiration  for  Bossuet's 
preaching,  73;  his  influence 
upon  Bossuet,  71-74;  Cousin 
on  the  lateness  of  his  influence, 
71,  72;  Frederic  the  Great's 
opinion  of  him,  274. 
Lewis  XV,  his  conversation,  18. 

M 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  as  a  critic,  68, 
69. 

Maine,  the  Duchess  of,  her  ego- 
ism, 79,  80. 

Maintenon,  Madame,  on  Fen- 
elon's  "Spiritual  Letters,"  31, 
32. 

Marmontel,  his  description  of 
Massillon,  121;  his  opinion  of 
the  abbe  Gahani,  229. 

Massillon,  84-122;  his  precocity, 
85;  his  early  education,  85;  his 
early  irregularities,  85,  86;  his 
retreat  to  the  abbey  of  Sept- 
fonts,  86;  ordained  as  priest, 
86;  his  popularity  in  Paris,  87; 
his  sermons  at  court,  87;  his 
Petit  Careine,  87,  113-118;  his 
manner  in  the  pulpit,  89,  90; 
his  sermon  before  Lewis  XIV 
on  All  Saints'  Day,  90,  91;  his 
art  of  exposition  and  style, 
91-93,  96,  97:  by  whom  he  will 
be  adniu-ed,  93,  94;  described 
by  Baron,  the  actor,  94;  his 
sermon  on  "Trifling  Faults," 
95-97;  his  indebtedness  to  Ra- 
cine, 98;  his  sermon  on  "Afflic- 


tions," 98;  on  human  happi- 
ness, 99 ;  the  effects  of  his  elo- 
quence, 99-101;  his  sermon  on 
"The  Small  Number  of  the 
Elect,"  99,  100;  Lewis  XIV  on 
his  preaching,  100;  his  defects, 
101 ;  his  funeral  discourses,  101- 
103;  his  oration  at  the  funeral 
of  Lewis  XIV,  102.  103;  his 
sermons  at  Court,  104-108;  his 
sermons  on  "  Doubts  about  Re- 
ligion," and  on  "The  Reality 
of  a  Future  Life,"  105,  106;  his 
portraiture  of  Spinosa,  106;  his 
sermon  on  "The  Sinning  Wo- 
man, ' '  108 ;  humbled  by  praise, 
109;  on  sudden  conversions, 
110;  criminations  of,  110-112; 
his  sermon  on  "  Slander,"  112; 
on  ennui,  114;  on  the  duties  of 
kings,  115;  praised  by  Voltaire, 
117;  made  bishop  of  Clermont, 
118;  becomes  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy,  118;  censured 
for  taking  part  in  the  consecra- 
tion of  Cardinal  Dubois  to  the 
archbishopric  of  Cambray,  119, 
120;  renounces  preaching,  119; 
his  tolerant  spirit,  120;  his 
"  Moral  Paraphrases  of  the 
Psalms,"  120;  contrasted  with 
Bossuet,  120,  121;  described  by 
Marmontel,  121;  his  death,  122. 

Mazarin,  Cardinal,  on  Lewis 
XIV,  6. 

Men  of  genius,  their  self-igno- 
rance, 19,  20;  their  peculiarities 
and  eccentricities.  58-00;  con- 
trast between  their  writings 
and  their  lives,  64,  65. 

Minds,  classified  by  a  French  phi- 
losopher, 202. 

Montaigne,  criticised  by  Rous- 
seau, 144;  on  historians,  225. 

N 

Napoleon  L  on  Providence,  268; 
Sainte-Beuve's  opinion  of  hiin, 
76,  77;  his  style  as  a  writer,  78, 
79;  saying  of,  79. 


296 


IKDEX. 


o 

Orleans,  the  duchess  of,  on  the 
morals  of  France,  104. 


Pascal,  123-140;  his  natural  qual- 
ities, 123;  his  "  Thoughts  upon 
Religion,"  124;  restoration  of 
the  original  text  of  the 
"Thoughts,"  125;  not  simply 
a  reasoner,  126;  his  method  of 
combating  unbelief,  127;  the 
same  compared  with  the  meth- 
ods of  Fenelon  and  Bossuet, 
128-136;  his  disdain  of  half- 
proofs,  131;  on  miracles,  135; 
his  love  for  little  churches,  135; 
his  definition  of  faith,  135;  his 
affectionate  character,  135, 137; 
upon  the  agony  of  Jesus  Christ, 
136;  how  his  writings  should 
be  stuclied,  137.  138;  the  uses 
of  his  works,  138. 

Philosophy  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  its  spirit,  14. 

Physiological  studies,  moral  ef- 
fects ot,  15. 

Pope,  Alexander,  characterized 
by  Sainte-Beuve,  73. 

Poujoulat,  M.,  his  "  Lettves  sur 
Bossuet  "noticed,  46,  47,  82,  83. 

Progress,  modern,  133. 

Providence,  its  intervention  in 
history,  222-224. 

R 

Revolution  of  1848  in  France, 
Sainte-Beuve's  notes  on,  34, 
35;  the  Revolution  of  1789, 
138. 

Richelieu,  his  love  of  letters,  269. 

Romantic  School  of  writers  in 
France,  18. 

Rousseau,  141-161;  his  influence 
on  the  French  language,  141, 
142,    147;    his   "Confessions," 

142,  160;   on   autobiographies, 

143,  144;    his   language  criti- 
cised, 145,  148,  149;  contrasted 


with  Chateaubriand,  147;  his 
lack  of  taste,  149;  his  moral 
qualities,  149;  contrasted  with 
the  "Rene"  of  Chateaubri- 
and, 150,  151;  his  sensibility, 
151;  a  regenerator  of  lan- 
guage, 153;  his  love  of  nature, 
153;  his  portrait  of  Madame  de 
Warens,  153,  154;  his  sense  of 
reality,  154;  his  criticism  on 
the  novelist  Richardson,  155; 
his  influence  on  French  Utera- 
ture,  156;  his  "discovery  of 
reverie,"  157;  his  pedestrian 
journeys,  158,  159;  his  treat- 
ment of  the  picturesque,  160; 
his  style  and  his  imitators,  160, 
161;  his  follies  and  vices,  158, 
161. 


Sainte-Beuve,  C.  A.,  his  life  and 
writings,  9-86;  his  funeral,  9, 
10;  difficulty  of  characterizing 
him,  10,  46,  47;  his  critical 
labors,  10,  11,  his  devotion  to 
literature,  11,  12;  his  birth- 
place and  parentage,  12,  18; 
character  of  his  father  and 
mother,  12-14;  his  education 
in  Paris,  14;  his  earliest  philo- 
sophical opinions,  14,  15;  his 
early  poverty,  16;  the  benefits 
of  his  medical  studies,  16,  17; 
becomes  a  contributor  to  the 
Globe,  17;  his  acquaintance 
with  Victor  Hugo,  18;  em- 
braces the  doctrines  of  the  Ro- 
mantic School,  18;  becomes  a 
member  of  Le  Cenacle,  18;  his 
work  on  the  French  Poetry  of 
the  16th  Century,  19;  his  "  Life, 
Poems,  and  Thoughts  of  Jo- 
seph Delorme,"  19-23;  com- 
pared with  Wordsworth,  21; 
his  "  Consolations,"  and  its  re- 
ception and  character,  23,  26; 
merits  and  defects  of  his  poems, 
25;  his  "August  Thoughts" 
{Pensees  d'Aout),  25,  26;  his 
ignorance  of  his  own  genius. 


INDEX. 


297 


26:  contributes  to  the  Revne  de 
Paris,  26;  ffoes  back  to  the 
Globe,  26;  fights  a  duel  with 
Dubois,  27;  his  frequent 
changes  of  opinion,  27-30,  47, 
50  5 1 ;  his  defense  of  the  same, 
29;  his  intimacy  with  Lamen- 
nais.  30;  his  contributions  to 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  31 ; 
his  novel,  ''Volupte,''  31,  32; 
he  declines  the  Cross  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honor.  32;  his  lectures 
at  Lausanne,  32;  his  "  History 
of  Port  Royal,"  32,  33;  ap- 
pointed keeper  of  the  Mazarin 
Library,  32;  his  frugal  life,  33, 
34;  becomes  a  professor  at  the 
University  of  Liege,  34;  his 
notes  on  the  Revolution  of  1848, 
34_.  35;  his  lectures  on  Chateau- 
briand, 36;  appointed  Profes- 
sor of  Latin  in  the  College  of 
France,  38;  hissed  by  the  stu- 
dents, 38;  made  Senator  of 
France,  37;  his  defense  of  Re- 
nan,  37;  devotes  himself  to 
criticism,  38;  elected  Member 
of  the  Academy,  38;  becomes  a 
contributor  to  the  Constitufion- 
nel,  38;  brilliancy  and  popular- 
ity of  his  "Monday-Chats," 
38-40;  improvement  in  his 
style,  40;  the  labor  expended 
upon  the  "Monday-Chats," 
41,  44;  his  wide  range  of 
themes,  42-44;  his  recognition 
of  the  value  of  idle  hours,  44; 
his  method  of  preparing  a 
"Monday-Chat,"  45,  46;  para- 
doxes m  his  character,  47;  his 
abhorrence  of  fixed  rules  and 
formulas,  47;  his  definition  of 
a  "classic,"  48;  his  impartial- 
ity as  a  critic,  48,  49;  his  defi- 
nition of  criticism,  49,  50;  his 
hatred  of  dogmatism,  50;  ob- 
jection to  his  views,  51-53;  his 
psychological  method,  15,  16, 
53;  his  theory  of  literary  criti- 
cism expounded,  54-57;  where- 
in it  differs  from   that  of  M. 


Taine,  57,  58;  objections  to  his 
critical  theory,  58-66;  his  criti- 
cism of  M.  Taine's  method,  62; 
the  ments  of  his  "Monday- 
Chats,"  66;  his  freedom  from 
sentimentality  and  cynicism. 
70;  his  qualities  as  a  critic,  70, 
71;  his  aphorisms,  71,  72;  his 
thoughts  on  "the  art  of  being 
happy,"  75.  76;  his  criticism  of 
Napoleon,  77,  78;  his  comment 
on  a  saying  of  Napoleon's,  79; 
his  dislike  of  literary  "  sensa- 
tionalism," 80;  his  estimate  of 
the  pi-esent  age,  70,  71;  on 
human  deterioration,  81;  on 
the  effect  of  cii-cumstances  on 
character,  81;  one  of  his 
"Thoughts,"  82;  how  he  over- 
came the  mannerism  of  his 
early  style,  83;  not  an  eloquent 
writer,  83;  his  apparent  lack  of 
earnestness,  84;  his  final  views 
of  religion.  85;  his  introduction 
to  Lacordaire,  86. 

Saint  Paul,  Bossuet  on  his  pow- 
ers of  persuasion,  77. 

Saint-Smion,  on  Lewis  XIV,  7,  9; 
his  genius  as  an  observer  and 
painter  of  character,  26,  27; 
contrasted  with  La  Bruyere,  27; 
his  portraiture  of  Fenelon,  27, 
28. 

Salons,  the  art  of  forming  them, 
162,  163;  notices  of  Parisian, 
169,  170,  193,  194. 

Slander,  Massillon  on,  113. 

Spinosa,  described  by  Massillon, 
106. 


Taine,  M.,  his  method  of  criti- 
cism noticed,  62;  his  opinion 
of  Sainte-Beuve's  critical  es- 
says, 66;  his  style,  74,  75. 

^'Teleiuaque,'"  Fenelon's,  criti- 
cised 42. 

Tencin,'  Madame  de,  167,  168. 

Thiers,  the  historian,  his  compar- 
ison of  the  English  and  French 
soldier,  77,  78, 


298 


I^TDEX. 


Voltaire,  saying  of,  51;  his  ad- 
miration of  Massillon's  Peiit 
Co  rem  e,  111;  his  style,  141;  his 
opinion  of  the  writing  of  Fred- 
eric the  Great,  273;  his  regard 
for  the  latter,  280;  their  cor- 
respondence, 271,  275,  280,  281. 


Walpole,  Sir  Horace,  his  portraits 
of  Madame  Geotfrin,  172,  177. 

Wordsworth,  William,  his  genms 
contrasted  with  that  of  Sainte- 
Beuve,  20-22;  his  views  on  lit- 
erary criticism,  66. 

Writing,  the  great  art  in,  82. 


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Dr.  Foster's  style  reminds  us  of  Tyndall  and  Proctor,  at  their  best.  *  *  He 
goes  over  the  ground,  inch  by  inch,  and  accumulates  information  of  surprising 
jnterest  and  importance,  bearing  on  this  subject,  which  he  gives  in  his  crowded  but 
most  instructive  and  entertaining  chapters  in  a  thoroughly  scientific  but  equally 
popular  way.  We  have  marked  whole  pages  of  his  book  for  quotation,  and  finally 
from  sheer  necessity  have  been  compelled  to  put  the  whole  volume  in  quotation 
marks,  as  one  of  the  few  books  that  are  indispensable  to  the  student,  and  scarcely 
less  important  for  the  intelligent  reader  to  have  at  hand  for  reference." — Golden 
Age,  Nevj  York. 


A  MANUAL  OF  GESTURE.- with  over  100  Figures, 
embracing  a  complete  system  of  Notation,  with  the  Principles  of  Interpretation 
and  Selections  for  Practice.     By  Prof.  A.  M.  Bacon. 

Price |i  75 

"  Prof.  Bacon  has  given  us  a  work  that,  in  thoroughness  and  practical  value, 
deserves  to  rank  among  the  most  remarkable  books  of  the  season.  There  has  in 
fact,  been  no  work  on  the  subject  yet  offered  to  the  public  which  approaches  it  for 
exhaustiveness  and  completeness  of  detail.  *  *  It  is  of  the  utmost  value, 
not  merely  to  students,  but  to  lawyers,  clergymen,  teachers,  and  public  speakers, 
and  its  importance  as  an  assistant  in  the  formation  of  a  correct  and  appropriate 
style  of  action  can  hardly  be  over-estimated." — T/ie  PItiladelphia  Inquirer. 

"  Prof.  Bacon's  Manual  seems  expressly  arrariged  for  the  help  of  those  who 
study  alone  and  have  undertaken  self-instruction  in  the  art  of  persuasive  delivery. 
The  work  in  the  hands  of  our  ministry,  well  studied,  would  have  the  effect  of 
emphasizing  the  living  words  of  the  Gospel  all  over  the  land,  and  making  them 
two-edged  with  meaning."— r,4?  Chicago  Pulpit. 


jrV BUSHED  BY  S.C.  GRIGGS  <5r-  CO.,  CHICAGO. 


ANDERSON'S  NORSE  MYTHOLOGY;  or  The  Religion 

of  Our  ForefatherS.-Containing  all  the  Myths  of  the  Eddas  carefully 
systematized  and  interpreted,  with  an  Introduction,  Vocabulary  and  Index.-By 
R  B  Anderson,  A.  M.,  Professor  of  Scandinavian  Languages,  in  the  University 
of  Wisconsin.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $-z  50  ;  full  gilt,  $3  00  ;  half  calf,  $5  00. 

"Professor  Anderson  has  produced  a  monograph  which  may  be  regarded  as 
exhaustive  in  all  its  relations."- rA^  Neav  York  Tribune. 

•'A  masterly  work.  .  .  No  American  book  of  recent  years  does  equal  credit 
to  American  scholarship,  or  is  deserving  of  a  more  pronounced  success."-^^^^<;« 

Giobe.  ,.       .  ... 

"I  have  been  struck  with  the  warm  glow  of  enthusiasm  pervading  it,  and  with 
the  attractiveness  of  its  descriptions  and  discussions.  I  sincerely  wish  it  a  wide 
circulation  and  careful  study."- fK/V//«'«  Dwight  Whitney,  Professor  of  Sanscrit 
and  Comparative  Philology,  Yale  College. 

"I  like  it  decidedly.  A  mythologist  must  be  not  only  a  scholar  but  a  bit  of  a 
poet,  otherwise  he  will  never  understand  that  petrified  poetry  out  of  which  the 
mythology  of  every  nation  is  built  up.  You  seem  to  me  to  have  that  gift  of  poetic 
divination,  and,  therefore,  whenever  I  approach  the  dark  runes  of  the  Edda,  I  shall 
gladly  avail  myself  of  your  help  and  guidance." 

Yours  truly,  F.  Max  Muller,  University  of  Oxford. 

"We  have  never  seen  so  complete  a  view  of  the  religion  of  the  Norsemen. 
The  Myths  which  Prof.  Anderson  has  translated  for  us  are  characterized  by  a  wild 
poetry  and  by  suggestions  of  strong  thought.  We  see  images  of  singular  beauty 
in  the  landscape  of  ice  and  snow.  Sparks  of  fire  are  often  struck  out  from  these 
verses  of  flint  and  &tte\."—Bib:iotkeca  Sacra. 

"Professor  Anderson  is  an  enthusiastic  as  well  as  an  able  scholar  ;  and  he 
imparts  his  enthusiasm  to  his  readers.  His  volume  is  deeply  interesting  as  well  as 
in  a  high  degree  instructive.  No  such  account  of  the  old  Scandinavian  Mythology 
has  hitherto  been  given  in  the  English  language.  It  is  full,  and  elucidates  the 
subject  in  all  points  of  view.  It  contains  abundant  illustrations  in  literal  and 
poetic  translations  from  the  Eddas  and  Sagas.  .  .  Professor  Anderson's  inter- 
pretations of  the  myths  throw  new  light  upon  them,  and  are  valuable  additions  (as  is 
the  whole  work)  to  the  history  of  religion  and  of  literature.  .  .  It  deserves  to 
be  welcomed,  not  only  as  most  creditable  to  American  scholarship,  but  .hIso  as  an 
indication  of  the  literary  enterprise  which  is  surely  growing  up  in  our  North-western 
States."—  The  Presbyterian  Quarterly  and  Princeton  Review. 

AMERICA   NOT    DISCOVERED    BY    COLUMBUS.-a 

Historical  Sketch  of  the  Discovery  of  America  by  the  Norsemen  in  the  loth  cent- 
ury. By  Prof.  R.  B.  Anderson,  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  with  an  Appendix 
on  the  Historical,  Literary  and  Scientific  value  of  the  Scandinavian  Languages. 

Price,  12mo,  cloth ^'  °° 

"A  valuable  addition  to  American  history.  The  object  is  fully  described  in  its 
title  page,  and  the  author's  narrative  is  very  remarkable.  *  *  *  The  book^  is 
full  of  surprising  statements,  and  will  be  read  with  sometldng  like  wonderment.  — 
Notes  and  Queries,  London. 


PUBLISHED  BY  S.   C.   GNIGGS  &-  CO.,   CHICAGO. 

VIKING  TALES  OF  THE  NORTH.-The  Sagas  of Thorstein,Vik- 
ing's  Son,  and  Fridthjof  the  Bold.  Translated  from  the  Icelandic  by  Prof  R.  B. 
Anderson,  Author  of  "Norse  Mythology,"  and  Jon  Bjarnason.  Also,  Stephens's 
translation  of  Tegner's  '•  Fridthjof's  Saga."  Complete  in  one  volume,  12mo, 
Cloth,  82.00. 

"A  charming  book  it  is.  Your  work  is  in  every-way  cleverly  done.  *  * 
The  quaintly,  delightful  sagas  ought  to  charm  many  thousands  of  readers,  and  your 
translation  is  of  the  best." — Willard  Fiske,  M.  A.,  Ph.  D.,  Prof,  of  the  North 
European  Languages,  Cornell  University. 

"This  work,  as  a  whole,  will  please  and  instruct  all  classes  of  readers,  and  espe- 
cially those  who  wish  to  search  out  the  antiquities  of  Scandinavian  literature.  But 
every  one  will  be  struck  with  the  majesty  and  force  of  that  old  poetry  of  the  north." 
—  The  Churchman,  Neiv  York. 

"The  literal  translations  of  Anderson  and  Bjarnason  are  full  of  interest  of  a  rare 
kind.  *  *  Whoever  fails  to  read  them,  will  lose  a  rare  fund  of  that  peculiar  wealth 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  is  suggested  by  the  earlier,  simpler  life  of  mankind."  — 
The  Christian  Union,  New  York. 

"Prof.  Anderson's  book  is  a  very  valuable  and  important  one.  The  'Saga  of 
Thorstein,  Viking's  Son,'  *  *  teems  with  magnificently  dramatic  situations,  the 
impressiveness  of  which  are  rather  increased  by  the  calm  directness  and  dignity  with 
which  they  are  related.  And  these  features  are  as  characteristic  of  the  English  ver- 
sion as  of  the  Icelandic  originals  The  translator  shows  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  all  the  intricacies  of  that  cruelly  inflected  language,  and  an  enthusiastic  appre- 
ciation of  its  epigrammatic  pith  and  vigor.  *  *  Tegner's  celebrated  poem 'Fridth- 
jofs  Saga,'  is  sufficiently  novel  in  its  theme  and  abounding  in  melody  and  rhythm 
to  yield  a  large  measure  of  enjoyment." — Tlie  Nation,  Neiv  York. 


FRIDTHJOF'S  SAGA. —  A  Norse  Romance.  By  Esaias  Tbgnfr 
Translated  from  the  Swedish  by  Thos.  A.  E.  Holcomb  and  Martha  A.  Lyon 
HoLCOMB.     One  volume,  12mo,  Cloth,  SI  50. 

"Its  beauties  are  innumerable.  The  grand  old  Viking  spirit  glows  in  every  line." 
—  Christian  Leader,  N,  Y, 

'"FridthjoPs  Saga'  so  beautifully  embalmed  in  English  verse,  must  become  a 

household  treasure  among  lovers  of  elegant  and  curious  literature." — St.  Louis 

Times, 

"No  one  can  peruse  this  noble  poem  without  arising  therefrom  with  a  loftier  idea 

of  human  bravery  and  a  better  conception  of  human  love." — Inter-Ocean,  Chicago. 

"Wherever  one  opens  the  poem  he  is  sure  to  light  upon  passages  oj"  exquisite 
beauty.  Longfellow  styles  it  the  noblest  poetic  contribution  whirh  Sweden  has  yet 
made  to  the  literary  history  of  the  world." — Church  yournal.  New  York. 

"  'Fridthjof  s  Saga'  is  an  interesting  story,  told  with  great  skill,  tenderness  and 
picturesque  language,  while  the  characters  are  discriminated  with  a  talent  worthy 
of  the  most  observant  student  of  human  nature.  *  *  *  Sweden  in  the  person  of 
Bishop  Tegner,  offers  the  true  poet,  who,  in  describing  the  struggles  of  souls,  has 
produced  an  immortal  poem.  *  *  The  Holcomb  translation  is  so  well  done  that 
It  would  be  difficult  to  better  it  in  any  single  respect." — Boston  Gazette. 


PUBLISHED  BY  S.   C.   GRIGGS  d^  CO.,  CHICAGO. 


THE    PILOT    AND    HIS    WIFE.By  Jonas  L.e.     Translated  from 
the  Norse  by  Mrs.  Ole  Bull,     limo,  Cloth.     $1.50. 

"The  book  abounds  in  a  rare  poetic  force."- TV.^  Nation. 

"Lie  is  a  noyelist  of  very  marked  genlus."-A'.r/A  American  Review. 

"It  opens  to  English  readers  new  and  vivid  fields  oUom^c^." -Hartford Post. 

"It  fascinates  the  attention  and  moves  the  feelings  with  a  strange  power    and 
when  the  book  is  finished.it  is  easy  to  reaUze  that  we  have  been  under  the  spell  of 
mss,ler."—Appleton's  journal. 

■'In  manner,  plot  and  treatment,  it  is  so  totally  different  from  all  °tber  writings 
as  to  excite  the  liveliest  interest.  *  *  Lie  is  a  writer  of  marked  pecul>arUies  and 
"re  gen  us  His  dramatic  powers  are  intense,  but  his  presentations  of  the  passions 
nd  fnspirations,  the  workings  of  heart,  andthe  struggles  of  soul,  are  -re  v.v^  and 
striking  still.  *  *  The  beauty  and  poetry  of  the  novel  is  found  in  the  l.teranr 
rrkmalip  which  gives  us  the  character  of  .Elizabeth.'  It  is  --aUy^n  or.g- 
inal  character,  and  a  pure  and  noble  conception."-5..r««..«^.  />-/>  Umon. 

"It  is  a  remarkably  attractive  book.  *  *  ^°'^:  t'\'\^'''T  Tn^rT: 
sitely  drawn,  notably  those  of  the  pilot  and  his  wife  Elizabeth  The  latter  >s  a 
d  ithtfulcr  ature.  The  reader  cannot  but  be  struck  by  the  intense  power  with 
which  the  author  manages  the  pathetic  incidents  of  his  story  and  with  the  natural- 
Tess  that  pervades  the  whole.     The  artistic  workmanship  will  strike  every  person  of 

hTu  hJand  culture,  while  the  vivid  descriptions  in  the  -°— --^J-^";^:;^ 
fully  absorb  the  attention  of  those  who  read  only  for  amusement.     There  is  a  f  -sh 

ness  and  originality  in  the  book,  an  out-door  flavor  and  breeziness,  that  cannot  fail 

to  win  for  it  a  high  degree  of  {^y or." -Boston  Gazette. 


PETERSON'S     NORWEGIAN -DANISH     GRAMMAR 

AWn    READER  -With  a  Vocabulary,  designed  for  American  Students  of  the 
AND    KtAUCK.  p,.  Rp,.  r   I   P   Peterson,  Professor  of  Scandina- 

Norwegian  Danish  Language.     By  Rev.  C.  1.  i-.  rExtKbu.  , 

vian  Literature.    12mo,  Cloth.    11.25. 

"I  may  say  that  I  have  my^.lf  read  through  the  Norwegian-Danish  Grammar 
of  Pete"  n,  and  when  I  affiru.  chat  I  find  myself  able  to  translate  the  reading  exer- 

ses  with  g'reat  readiness,  it  may  be  inferred  how  well  the  book  '^  adapte^t      o 
ward  one  in  a  knowledge  of  this  interesting  but  neglected  language.   -^.  Wxnchell 
LLD    Professor  in  Vanderbilt    University,  late  Chancellor  of  the  UmversUy  of 
Syracuse. 

"I  rejoice  to  see  the  door  opened  to  American  Students  to  the  treasures  of  Nor- 
wegian  letters,  and  in  so  attractive  a  manner  as  in  Mr.  Peterson  s  work.  No  more 
reTuldirectio'n  for  philological  study  opens  to  English  scholars  no.  than  th  re 
search  into  Anglo-Saxon  and  Norse  Northern  tongues.  Ih.s  work  will  be  sur.  >  a 
valaabU  help  in  this  direction."-/>../.  Frank  Se^.ell.  President  of  Urbana  Um- 
versity. 


PUBLISHED  BY  S.    C.    GRIGGS  &=  CO.,    CHICAGO. 

ROBERT'S  RULES  OF  ORDER,  For  Deliberative  Assemblies.— 
By  l\Iajor  H.  M.  Robert,  Corps  of  Engineers,  U.  S.  A.    Pocket  size,  cloth,  75  cents. 

This  book  is  far  superior  to  any  other  parliamentary  manual  in  the  English 
language.  It  gives  in  the  simplest  form  possible  all  the  various  rules  or  points  of 
law  or  order  that  can  arise  in  the  deliberations  of  any  lodge,  grange,  debating 
club,  literary  society,  convention,  or  other  organized  body,  and  every  rule  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  and  as  easily  found  as  a  word  in  a  dictionary.  Its  crowning  excel- 
lence is  a  "Table  of  Rules  relating  to  Motions,"  on  two  opposite  pages  which 
contains  the  answers  to  more  than  two  hundred  questions  on  parliamentary  law, 
vhich  will  be  of  the  greatest  value  to  every  member  of  an  assembly. 

"  It  should  be  studied  by  all  who  wish  to  become  familiar  with  the  correct 
Usages  of  public  meetings."—^.  O.  Haven,  D.  D.,  Oiancellor  of  Syracuse  Uni- 
versity. 

"  It  seems  much  better  adapted  to  the  use  of  societies  and  assemblies  than 
either  Jefferson's  Manual  or  Cushing's."— J.  M.  Gregory,  LL.  D.,  late  President 
of  the  Illinois  Industrial  University. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  your  Manual  brought  into  general  use,  as  I  am 
sure  it  must  be,  when  its  great  merit  and  utility  become  generally  known. — Hon.  I 
M.  Cooley,  LL.  D  ,  author  of  '  Cooky's  Blackstone,'  "  etc. 

"  After  carefully  examining  it  and  comparing  it  with  several  other  books  having 
the  same  object  in  view,  I  am  free  to  say  that  it  is,  by  far,  the  best  of  all.  The 
'Table  of  Rules  '  is  worth  the  cost  of  the  work." — Thomas  Bowman,  D.  D., 
Bishop  of  Baltimore  M.  E.  Conference. 

"This  capital  little  manual  will  be  found  exceedingly  useful  by  all  who  are 
concerned  in  the  organization  or  management  of  societies  of  various  kinds.  .  .  . 
If  we  mistake  not,  the  book  will  displace  all  its  predecessors,  as  an  authority  on 
parliamentary  usages."— A^'^a/  York  World. 

"I  admire  the  plan  of  your  work,  and  the  simplicity  and  fidelity  with  which 
you  have  executed  it.  It  is  one  of  the  best  compendiums  of  Parliamentary  Law 
that  I  have  seen,  and  exceedingly  valuable,  not  only  for  the  matter  usually- 
embraced  in  such  a  book,  but  for  its  tables  and  incidental  matter,  which  serve 
greatly  to  adapt  it  to  common  use." — Dr.  D.  C.  Eddy,  Speaker  of  the  Massachu- 
setts House  of  Representatives . 


MISHAPS  OF  MR.  EZEKIEL   PELTER.-Hiustrated. 

12mo,  cloth «1.50. 

"  So  ludicrous  are  the  vicissitudes  of  the  much-abused  Ezeklel,  and  so  much  of 
human  nature  and  every-day  life  intermingle,  that  it  will  be  read  with  a  hearty  zest 
for  its  morals,  while  the  humor  is  irresistible.  If  you  want  to  laugh  at  something 
new,  a  regular  side-splitter,  get  this  book."— 7:4r  Evangelist,  ^t.  Louis. 

"  We  have  read  Ezekiel.  We  have  laughed  and  cried  over  its  pages.  It  grows 
in  interest  to  the  last  sentence.  The  story  is  well  told,  and  the  moral  so  good,  that 
we  decidedly  like  and  commend  '\\..'^— Pacific  Baptist,  San  Francisco. 


PUBLISHED   BY  S.   C.   GRIGGS  &-  CO.,   CHICAGO. 


PWLOSOPHY   OF   THE    PLAN   OF  SALVATION.- 

By  Rev  J.  B.  Walker,  D.D.,  with  an  Introductory  Essay  by  Calvin  E.  Stowe, 
D.D.  A  new  edition,  with  supplementary  chapter  by  the  author.  Sixty-seventh 
thousand,     i  vol.     nmo.     Price,  $1.50. 

"  Though  written  with  great  simplicity,  it  is  evidently  the  production  of  a 
master  mind.  *  *  and  few  works  are  more  adapted  to  bring  skeptics  of  a  certain 
class  to  a  stand.  *  *  It  is  the  disclosure  of  the  actual  process  of  mind  through 
which  the  author  passes,  from  the  dark  regionsof  do^bt  and  infidelity  to  the  clear 
light  and  conviction  of  a  sound  and  heartfelt  belief  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus. 

"  There  is  in  many  parts  of  this  treatise,  a  force  of  argument  and  a  power  of 
conviction  almost  resistless. 

"  It  is  a  work  of  extraordinary  power.  *  *  We  think  it  is  more  likely  to 
lod^e  an  impression  in  the  human  conscience,  in  favor  of  the  divine  authority 
of  Christianity.,  than  any  work  of  the  modern  press."- Z<7«</<>«  Evangelical 
Magazine^  England. 

"  No  single  volume  we  ever  read  has  been  so  satisfactory  a  demonstration  of 
the  truth  of  religion,  or  has  had  so  strong  a  controlling  influence  over  our  habits 
of  thought.  *  *  No  better  book  can  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  honest  and 
intellectual  skeptic.  It  is  overwhelmingly  convincing  to  reason,  and  leaves  the 
doubter  nothing  but  his  passions  and  prejudices  to  bolster  him  up.  *  *  Every 
minister's  library  should  have  a  copy."-r/^^  Methodist  Protestant,  Baltimore. 

"  It  fills  a  place  in  theological  literature  which  no  other  book  does.  It  is  the 
style  of  the  argument  which  gives  power,  imprcssiveness,  and  perennial  freshness 
to  this  production.  *  *  We  have  found  in  pastoral  experience  that  we  could 
place  no  better  uninspired  book  than  this  in  the  hands  of  intelligent  doubters,  or 
in  the  hands  of  new  converts,  for  their  aid  and  guidance.  Those  who  are  not 
familiar  with  it,  will  do  well  to  procure  a  copy  and  study  it  carefully.  It  is  worth 
more  than  some  large  libraries  to  those  who  read  for  their  profiting."- /'/.<'  Christ- 
ian at  Work.,  New  York. 

THE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE  HOLYSPIRIT;  Or  Phil- 
osophy of  the  Divine  Operation   in  the  Redemption 

of  Man. -Being  volume  second  of"  The  Philosophy  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation." 
By  Rev.   J.   B.   Waikek,  D.D.      Fourth   edition,  revised  and  enlarged.     Price, 

'  "The  author's  former  able  works  have  prepared  the  public  for  the  rich  treas- 
ures of  thought  in  this  volume.  It  is  a  book  of  foundation  principles,  and  deals  in 
the  verities  of  the  gospel  as  with  scientific  facts.  It  is  an  imanswerable  argument 
in  behalf  of  Christ's  life,  mission,  and  doctrine,  and  especially  rich  in  its  teachings 
concerning  the  office  aYid  work  of  the  Spirit.  No  volume  has  lately  issued  from  the 
press  which  brings  so  many  timely  truths  to  the  public  attention.  While  it  is 
metaphysical  and  thorough,  it  is  also  clever,  forceful,  winning  for  its  grand  truth  s 
sake,  and  every  tvay  readable.  The  author  has  wrought  a  great  work  for  the 
Christian  Church,  and  every  minister  and  teacher  shotdd  arm  himself  with 
strong  weapons  by  perusing  the  arguments  of  this  book.  It  is  printed  and  bound 
in  the  exquisite  style  of  all  publications  which  issue  from  Messrs.  S.  C.  Griggs  &  Co.  . 
establishment."— .1/t^^//0£/«^  Recorder,  Pittsburgh. 


PUBLISHED  BY  S.   C.  GRIGGS  ^  CO.,  CHICAGO. 
THE  WORLD  ON  WHEELS,  and  Other  Sketches.- 

By  Benj.  F.  Taylor.     Illustrated,     i  vol.,  i2mo.     Price,  $1.50. 

"  Full  of  humor  and  sharp  as  a  Damascus  blade." — Presbyterian,  Phil  a. 

"  The  pen-pictures  of  B.  F.  Taylor  are  among  the  most  brilliant  and  eccentric 
productions  of  the  day.  They  are  like  the  music  of  Gottscharlk  played  by  Gotts- 
chalk  himself;  or  like  sky-rockets  that  burst  in  the  zenith,  and  fall  in  showers  of 
tiery  rain.  They  are  word-wonders,  reminding  us  of  necromancy ,'with  the  dazzle 
and  bewilderment  of  their  rapid  succession." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Reader,  do  you  want  to  laugh  ?  Do  you  want  to  crj'  ?  Do  you  want  to 
climb  the  Jacob's  ladder  of  imagination,  and  dwell  among  t?ie  clouds  of  fancy  fOj. 
a  little  while  at  least  ?  Do  you?  Then  get  B.  F.  Taylor's  World  on  Wheels,  read 
it,  and  experience  sensations  you  never  felt  before  !  *  *  It  is  a  book  of  '  word 
pictures,'  a  string  of  pearls,  the  verj'  poesy  of  thought." — The  Christian,  St.  Louis. 

"Another  of  Benj.  F.  Taylor's  wonderful  word  painting  books.  *  *  In 
purity  of  style  and  originality  of  conception,  Taylor  has  no  superiors  in  this 
country.  The  book  before  us  is  a  gem  in  every  way.  It  is  quaint,  poetical,  melo- 
dious, unique,  rare  as  rare  flowers  are  rare.  He  has  an  exquisite  faculty  of  illustra- 
tion that  is  unsurpassed  in  the  whole  range  of  American  literature." — .St.  Louis 
Dispatch. 


OLD-TIME  PICTURES  and  SHEAVES  of  RHYME. 

By  Benj.  F.  Taylor.     Red  line  edition,  small  quarto,  silk  cloth,  with  eight  fine 
full  page  illustrations. 

Price $2  00 

The  same,  full  gilt  edges  and  gilt  side 2  50 

John  G.  Whittier  writes  : — "  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  see  the  poems  of  B.  F. 
Taylor  issued  by  your  house  in  a  form  worthy  of  their  merit.  Such  pieces  as  the 
'  Oid  Village  Choir, ^  '  The  Skylark,^  '  The  Vane  on  the  Spire,'  and  '  June,' 
deserve  their  good  setting.  *  *  I  do  not  know  of  anyone  who  so  well  reproduces 
the  home  scenes  of  long  ago.     There  is  a  quiet  humor  that  pleases  me." 

«. 

"  Unless  it  be  Whittier,  we  know  of  no  American  poet  so  sweet,  tender  and 
gentle  in  his  lyrics  as  B.  F.  Taylor.  No  writer  of  to-day  sings  the  praises  of  rural 
life  and  scenery  as  eloquently,  and  we  do  not  wonder  that  many  of  his  poems  have 
become  classic.  The  holiday  volume  of  his  happy  verses,  Old  Time  Pictures  and 
Sheaves  of  Rhyme  is  a  very  eloquent  and  daintily  bound  volume,  and  comes  from 
that  growing  and  reliable  publishing  house  of  the  West,  S.  C.  Griggs  &  Company, 
of  Chicago.  Taking  up  this  handsomely  printed  book,  we  have  to  linger  on  the 
delightful  imagery  and  graceful  diction  of  its  pages,  glowing  as  they  are  with  pure 
and  tender  thoughts,  and  the  earnest,  indescribable  music  of  sunny  fields  and  rural 
joys.  *  *  No  one  can  read  it  but  will  be  the  better  for  so  doing." — The  Albany 
Morning-  Express. 


PUBLISHED  BY  S.   C.   GRIGGS  &^  CO.,  CHICAGO. 


GERMAN  WITHOUT  GRAMMAR  OR  DICTIONARY .- 

According  to  the  Pestalozzian  Method  of  teaching  by  Object  Lessons.     By  Dr.  Zur- 
Brucke.     12ino,  half  bound.     Price,  50  Cents. 

"It  makes  the  study  of  German  as  much  a  recreation  as  a  task."-7V.  Y.  Weekly 
Tribune. 

"This  book  as  a  whole,  cannot  be  too  highly  praised,  and  should  sell  an  hundred 
thousand  a  yt2.x:'-The  Church  Union,  Ne7v  York. 

"The  method  is  so  simple  that  any  English  teacher  with  a  little  instruction  in  the 
pronunciation  of  German,  can  handle  \t."-Pennsy!vania  School  Journal. 

"I  like  the  arrangement  of  it  very  much.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  only  correct 
method  of  teaching  German."->Pr</.  F.  B.  McClellan.  Superintendent  of  Schools, 
Albion,  Mich. 

"By  far  the  best  method  to  enable  pupils  to  acquire  familiarity  with  a  language, 
and  readiness  in  speaking  it.  The  little  volume  is  an  excellent  hand  book  for  teach- 
ers." — Boston  Comtnonwealth. 

"A  usefuUittle  manual.        *  *        It  is  admirably  adapted  to  its  purpose. 

The  book  has  been  in  successful  use  in  Chicago  Public  Schools,  where  U  has  been 
found  to  fulfill  its  object  in  the  most  satisfactory  m^r^i^^r:' -Boston  Gazette. 

"Permit  me  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the  excellent  little  book  you  sent  me. 
It  strikes  me  that  the  method  is  admirably  adapted  to  a  pleasant  and  rap.d  acquaint- 
ance with  elementary  German  and  I  cannot  but  think  it  will  prove  successful  The 
course  is  very  attractive."-/'../  A.  C.  Kendrick,  D.  D.,  LL.  D  .  UmversUy  oj 
Rochester. 

"This  book  is  so  simple  and  straightforward  that  a  child  would  find  no  difficulty 
in  handling  it  from  the  beginning.  Children  of  all  ages  would  be  charmed  wuh  the 
novelty  of  the  method,  and  acquire  more  rapidly  under  it  and  grow  less^  weary  wuh 
it,  than  probably  with  any  other  now  in  vogue  in  schools  and  classes.  -The  fuO- 
Ushers'  Weekly,  N.  Y. 

-I  cannot  express  in  words  my  appreciation  of  your  little  book.  The  method  you 
adopt  is  the  only  one  by  which  Americans  can  learn  to  speak  the  German  language, 
and  the  admirable  arrangement  of  your  book  makes  it  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  use 
of  American  schools.  I  am  using  the  method  with  my  own  classes.  It  need  only  be 
known.  I  think,  in  order  that  it  may  be  appreciated  by  all  earnest  and  energet.c 
teachers  who  would  give  their  pupils  the  most  thorough  knowledge  of  German  m  the 
least  possible  ^^^^.'•-W.  F.  Kerdoljff,  Prof,  of  Languages.  Irvtng  MzlUary  Aca- 
demy.  Lake  Viezu,  III. 

"This  is  certainly  a  great  improvement  on  most  methods.  From  the  first  the 
pupil  speaks  German,  but  is  carried  along  easily  until  he  has  acquired  a  good  deal  of 
the  language.  For  young  pupils,  we  suspect  that  this  is  the  only  method;  and  U  s 
possible  that  adults  may  be  best  helped  by  it.  It  was  a  fault  of  old  books  used  by  us 
long  ago,  that  they  stranded  us  in  the  first  month  upon  the  only  rocks  m  that  whole 
sea-everything  hard  was  put  at  the  beginning.  Here,  nothing  is  h^rd,  and  the 
German  is  every  day  talk.  The  text  is  Roman,  a  great  point  in  its  favor.  -J He 
Methodist,  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


APR  6    134^ 


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